Time Knows No Boundaries
by OhWouldn'tItBeLoverly
Summary: When Martha Burton buys an old fob watch from an antique shop, intending to give it for her dad's birthday, little did she suspect it would be haunted by the spirit of a WWI cavalry officer, and finds herself stuck with an unexpected housemate whom only she can see.
1. I Hear Voices

_**Story summary: When Martha Burton buys an old fob watch from an antique shop, intending to give it for her dad's birthday, little did she suspect it would be haunted by the spirit of an WWI cavalry officer, and finds herself stuck with an unexpected housemate whom only she can see.**_

* * *

**Time Knows No Boundaries ~ Chapter One**

_I hear voices when I'm all alone__  
__Hearing voices but there's nobody home__  
__Hear the voices could it be they're calling out to me?__  
__Hearing voices I look, why can't I see?__  
__I hear voices, can't stop those voices  
_**'Hearing Voices' – Suicidal Tendencies **

_.:*:._

To say that Martha Burton was in her element was the understatement of the century. The smile on her face easily outshone the dim up-lighters situated on the walls of the overcrowded antique shop. She felt like an eager child in a sweetshop, or in an Aladdin's cave that was full to bursting with knick-knacks and treasures untold. She could now understand why her father craved to visit places such as this.

The shop seemed to stock items suited to every passing fancy of mankind: great, dark, elegantly carved pieces of furniture were scattered around the shop floor; huge, rickety-looking mahogany shelves were absolutely stuffed with plentiful shinies like ornaments, hats, glassware, china sets, old toys, timepieces, ceramics... each and every one with a story to tell, no doubt. Martha had found herself positively drooling at the mouth when she discovered a corner of the musty-smelling shop devoted entirely to vintage clothing, some from as early as Edwardian times, maybe even before.

But Martha wasn't in here to buy something for herself. She was on the search for a birthday present for her dad. He was hitting the big five-oh in three weeks time and Martha felt that she wanted to buy him something a little more special than the usual annual gift of aftershave or a box of his favourite liquorice allsorts. But so far nothing was catching her eye, calling out to her or begging to be taken home with her.

"Was there anythin' you were lookin' for in particular there, missy?" asked a voice, and Martha tore her green eyes away from a pile of leather-bound books by Charles Dickens, to look around at the shop's proprietor, a tall, willowy woman of middle age with flyaway greying curls. "Or are ya just browsin'?" she added kindly.

"Oh... well, I'm looking for something for my dad's birthday actually," she explained, tucking a lock of red hair behind her ear. "He's a bit of an antique nut... but there doesn't seem to be anything here in my price range at all, I'm afraid," she continued regretfully, staring around the shop floor, eyeing the various pieces a little hungrily.

She always had loved shops like this and picking up undiscovered gems like a magpie ever since she could remember; something which, during her teens, had provoked much teasing from others – especially when she had been at school - and had made her feel quite isolated over the years.

"Well, why don't ya take a look in this 'ere box?" the woman suggested, gesturing to a tatty cardboard box that was sitting on the cashier's desk. "They're all reduced. Ya might be able t' find some trinket in there that'll take yer fancy... "

"Okay, thanks," said Martha with a smile, approaching the desk to have a root around in the box as she suggested. A label reading "Reduced items" had been sellotaped on there, which she had always thought was retail-speak for "junk and shit that nobody actually wants". Nevertheless, she had a look.

There was all manner of things which had been accumulated here: a tarnished candle snuffer, a number of silver knives – all dull and blunt – and serving spoons, a tiny music box (broken), and a hideous stuffed figure of a stoat, which was real, much to her slight horror. Martha sighed a little. She couldn't see anything which would be suitable as a present for her dad. She was about to call it quits and make ready to leave to search elsewhere, when something else in the box caught her eye.

Curious, Martha dug deeper into the hoard of objects and pulled out a silver pocket watch. It was a beautiful piece and it looked very old, and Martha wondered why it had been stuffed into a box like this in such a careless manner. Surely an item like this should have had pride of place in a display cabinet or something? The outer silver casing was a bit tarnished but something which could easily be fixed with a spot of polishing, she thought; swirly patterns of leafy vines had been engraved in such exquisite detail by a clearly expert hand. There were marks on the outside which appeared to be an inscription of some kind, but it was worn down as though someone had continually run the pad of their thumb over that spot. The poor light in the shop made it difficult for Martha to make it out. Pressing her finger against the tiny button on the side, the mechanism inside allowed the timepiece to be opened with a distinct 'click'. The time showed a quarter to twelve. Judging by the lack of ticking, it wasn't working, though Martha didn't really expect it to. Perhaps if she sought out somebody who knew how to fix old fob watches like this, this would make an ideal gift for her equally antique-crazy father.

"Excuse me? How much is this?" Martha asked the woman behind the desk, holding up the watch to show her.

"All the items in tha' there box are a fiver, dearie," answered the woman briskly before attending to another customer who had just arrived.

_Five pounds? _Martha thought in surprise. _Is that all?_

Clearly this woman did not seem to be aware of the proper value of this watch, but Martha did not deign to dispute the fact.

"_Can you hear me, Miss?"_

Martha was so taken by surprise by the sudden voice that she jumped and nearly dropped the watch. She turned around to see who had spoken but the only other people in the shop was the proprietor and the man who had just walked in on the other side of the room.

"I'm sorry, did you say something?" she called over to them. The woman blinked.

"No, dearie, I didn't say a thing," she said.

Martha frowned slightly. She was certain she had heard a voice. It had been as loud and clear as though somebody had spoken right into her ear. She didn't think it was the woman as it had definitely been a man's voice she had heard. She shrugged, thinking that her over-active imagination was running away with her and she dropped her gaze back to the pocket watch in her hand, deciding that she would indeed purchase this for her father. At such a low price, how could she refuse?

"_You _can _hear me, can you not, Miss?" _came the apparently disembodied voice again softly.

Martha whipped her head around again with a slight yelp, slightly panicked. She turned on the spot – a complete three hundred and sixty degree circle, as though determined to find the source of the voice, but there was nobody else in sight. She was dimly aware of the woman shopkeeper laughing at something the other customer was saying, but this voice was unlike either of theirs. It _was_ male, she was certain of that; smooth and well-spoken, and the tone had sounded... hopeful.

As the shopkeeper bustled back behind the desk, Martha heard the mysterious voice again.

"_Please, Miss... have you come to help me?"_

"Who's saying that?" Martha demanded in a whisper, an unexpected overwhelming feeling of panic rising in her throat. The lady behind the desk looked up from her computer monitor to raise her eyebrows enquiringly at her.

"Are ya alright there, lovey?" she asked friendlily, seemingly oblivious to the curious situation Martha was experiencing. Martha closed the pocket watch with a _snap._

"Uh... I - I'll take this, please," she said shakily, but the woman did not appear to have noticed her trembling.

"That'll be five pounds then, please... "

Martha rummaged clumsily in the pocket of her leather jacket to unearth her purse and hastily slapped a five pound note onto the scuffed surface of the counter before stuffing the old timepiece into her pocket.

"But... dearie, don't ya wish me to gift wrap it for ya as it's for yer dad's - ?" the woman called as Martha all but sprinted to the exit.

"No, thanks, it's fine!"

As soon as she had vacated the premises, Martha leant on the wall beside the shop, taking deep, steadying breaths. Away from the shop's musty interior and dim lighting and out amongst the hustle and bustle of the busy street outside, it was hard to imagine that anything out of the ordinary had just occurred. But Martha had been _so _sure she had heard a voice speaking to her as clear as a bell. Perhaps that place was just getting to her and her imagination was indeed running wild... At least, she dearly hoped so, she thought as she made her way over to a shiny black motorbike parked at the nearby curb and pulling a helmet from her backpack to jam it onto her head... After all, you know what they say about people who start hearing voices...

* * *

**A/N: **_**Hope you lovely people enjoyed this first chapter. Reviews would be most appreciated!**_


	2. Too Old For Imaginary Friends

_**Hi there, lovely people! Thanks for the follows/favs for my first chapter. And an extra big thank you to FlamePumpkin32 and the anon reviewer for kindly leaving reviews, it means a lot. I hope you enjoy this chapter! :)**_

* * *

**Time Knows No Boundaries ~ Chapter Two**

_Is it strange that I talk to myself__  
__Is it weird that I hear someone else__  
__What do I do__  
__There's no more you__  
__And I tell me you'll be coming __home__  
__Is it strange I believe them again__  
__Voices in my head  
_**'Voices In My Head' – Bruno Mars**

.:*:.

"Martha!"

Martha snapped her head up at the sound of the loud voice and looked around blearily. Much to her chagrin, she had fallen asleep sitting at the table, and she flushed with embarrassment as other people sitting nearest in the little cafe were sniggering and giggling at her. Scraping back a lock of hair behind her ear, she met the gaze of her boyfriend, Elliot, sitting opposite her and offered an apologetic smile.

"Sorry, El," she muttered, rubbing her eyes.

"Don't mention it," he said with a small chuckle, taking a sip from his paper cup of coffee. "Have those bad dreams been keeping you awake again, babes?" he asked her, his brows furrowed in mild concern.

Martha stifled a yawn with difficulty before answering, "They're not bad, so much as just..._weird_."

Her gaze shifted unseeingly to the thronging crowd of people milling about the busy airport as she thought yet again about that strange disembodied voice. The curious incident at the antique shop a week ago had not, unfortunately, been her last.

During the days that had followed her trip there, Martha had taken to constantly studying the pocket watch she had purchased, weighing it in her hands and running her thumb over the already worn inscription which, after squinting at it, she could see were a set of initials: _J.N._

This meant absolutely nothing to her but as she had been gently fingering the outer rim of the watch, a low but distinctly amused voice had said, "That tickles."

Then there was the time when she had been relaxing at home in her flat, listening to an album by Guns n' Roses – again whilst she had been handling the watch - and a voice had asked her "would you please be so kind to desist that infernal din?". This would normally happen in the evening, and Martha would just shake her head and put it down to being over-tired and not getting enough sleep.

However, during her hours of much-needed slumber, Martha had found herself plagued by curious dreams. The same hopeful words that had whispered to her at the antique shop were asked of her again... _Can you hear me? ... Will you help me? _Though this time, she could see the blurry outlines of a man. She could never see his face properly but Martha swore she dreamed he was wearing a uniform of some kind and he would be holding out an arm to her as though in a beseeching manner.

In the dream, however, when Martha had stretched out her own hand to grasp his, he would dissolve into nothingness before she could even touch him and that was when she would jolt awake, breathing heavily, gazing frantically around her dark bedroom searching for someone who wasn't even there. Then she would lie awake for hours afterwards, wondering about it, preventing her from further sleep. That had been the routine every night for the rest of that week. She would go to sleep, have the dream, stay up for the remainder of the night and be exhausted the next day.

But it was not just the voice and the dreams; whenever she was alone in her flat, Martha could feel... _something..._a presence of some kind. She could not explain it, not even to herself. Call it feminine intuition, instinct or an over-active imagination at work but Martha had had the distinct impression that there was something else in the room with her, apart from her beloved tabby cat, Blossom.

"If this keeps up," said Elliot, pulling Martha back to the present, "maybe you should go see the doctor about giving you something to help you sleep?"

Martha only shrugged in answer, taking a sip from her now cold coffee and grimacing. She did not much fancy the idea of having to rely on pills to help stop the dreams. She pushed any further thoughts about the situation aside for the moment, wanting to change the subject.

"So, what time's your flight leave again?" she asked Elliot, leaning over to deposit her abandoned coffee in a nearby recycling bin. He flipped his wrist over to glance at his watch.

"Any moment now, actually," he answered. "I should get a move on, y'know... "

Elliot was catching a flight to New Zealand to visit his family over there as he had not seen them for quite some time. Martha had been with her boyfriend for nearly two years now, and even to this day, she still could not quite believe her great fortune at having him in her life. They had been introduced by mutual friends at a party and Martha, jittery and nervous as she always was at parties, did not think she had made such a good impression on him at the time as she had been a little on the tipsy side and had managed to spill an entire glass of red wine onto his spanking new shirt. Something which Elliot still teased her about even now. So she had been as surprised as anyone when the handsome, dark-haired twenty-eight-year-old had asked for her phone number at the end of that night and were still together after all this time.

However, she could not pretend that she wasn't a little hurt that Elliot had not asked her to accompany him on his excursion to New Zealand; she had never been there nor had she met his family and would have loved to. But he had never even suggested the idea, and she certainly wasn't going to if he did not wish for her to come.

As she walked with Elliot to help with his hand luggage to the gate where he handed over his ticket and passport for the uniformed lady behind a desk to check, he turned to Martha.

"Now...promise me when I'm away, you'll get some proper night's sleep," he told her in a mock firm voice, waving a long finger at her. The redhead sighed and rolled her eyes a little though in a good-natured way. "I don't much fancy having a zombie for a girlfriend, alright?" he continued.

"Whatever you say, _darling," _she answered, enunciating the last word a little drily. Then she smiled and leant up on tiptoes to wrap her arms around Elliot's tall frame in a tight hug. "See you in a three weeks time, then. Look after yourself, won't you? Make sure you don't fall in love with some cute Kiwi chick..."

She heard him give an amused snort. "I will, and I'll try not to," he said, chuckling.

"And send my love to your folks, okay?" Martha continued, biting the inside of her cheek to stop herself from adding that she wished she could have come along to give Elliot's parents her love in person.

"Your ticket and passport, sir," piped up the woman from behind the desk, and Elliot disentangled himself from Martha to retrieve the aforementioned articles with a muttered, "Thank you." Then he ducked his head down to briefly capture his girlfriend's lips with his.

"Take care, babes," he said swiftly. "Love you."

"Love you, too," she murmured.

She watched him saunter through the gate and he turned back to wave to her, which she returned with a rather fixed, sad smile, before disappearing around a corner. Martha felt an odd sense of loss. This was going to be the first time that she and Elliot had been separated from each other any longer than a week in the two years they had known each other. She sighed and told herself firmly to get a grip; it was not like Elliot was going to be gone forever. All the same...she wished she had been going with him.

Jostled slightly by the maddening crowd in the airport, Martha meandered her way back to the entrance and stepped out into the chilly, autumn night air to hail a taxi to begin the rather lengthy journey back home.

One extremely uneventful drive later, she arrived at her flat. The lift was broken down (again) so she climbed the stairs to her humble abode. Once inside, she collapsed onto her squashy leather sofa, exhaling sharply, the strap of her messenger bag slipping off her shoulder as it crumpled onto a pile on the floor. She was exhausted from so many sleepless nights and felt oddly deflated after Elliot's departure, unsure of what to do with herself.

There was a quiet mewing noise and Martha's cat, Blossom, leapt lightly onto the sofa to greet her mistress, purring at the sight of her. Martha smiled fondly at the feline and stroked her behind the ears.

"Just you and me for three weeks, I guess, Blossom, baby," she murmured to her.

Hating the all-consuming silence weighing upon her ears in the absence of her partner, Martha grabbed the remote and aimed it across the room at the TV. After a moment of channel-hopping, she settled on one of the film channels. To her mild but pleasant surprise, one of her favourite films was being shown, _Thor._

_Perfect, _she thought with a smile. Nothing quite like unwinding than with a movie involving exciting fantasy adventures with sexy demi-gods. She got up and put away her jacket and bag. Being amongst a sea of hot, sweaty bodies at the airport had left Martha feeling horridly grimy. So one welcome shower later, she changed into her pyjamas. Dimming the light switch in the living room and fetching a tub of chocolate-chip ice cream to snack upon, she sank back onto the sofa to lose herself in the world of _Thor_.

* * *

_"So I am no more than another stolen relic, locked up here until you might have use of me?"_

_"Why do you twist my words?"_

_"You could have told me what I was from the beginning! Why didn't you?"_

_"You're my son...I wanted only to protect you from the truth..."_

_"What, because I...I..I am the monster parents tell their children about at night?"_

This was one of Martha's favourite scenes in this movie but her eyes were now itching with tiredness and becoming droopy, so she wasn't really concentrating as the scene played out. She was once again fiddling absent-mindedly with the pocket watch in her hands and thinking...She had heard that mysterious voice in the shop and yet she had still felt compelled to buy this watch. Ever since then, she heard various comments and had those strange dreams. Why?

"Why?" she questioned aloud to herself. "Am I going mad or what?"

"_Miss, I can assure you that you are not going mad," _came that disembodied voice once again.

Martha stared at the watch with wide eyes for a moment and then shook her head dazedly.

"No, you are just a figment of my imagination, that's all you are. I'm supposed to be too old for imaginary friends. Now leave me the hell alone," she groaned sleepily, yawning widely.

She discarded the watch onto the coffee table where it spun a little on the surface, still open. Feeling too tired to even struggle her way to bed, Martha snuggled down into the soft cushions beside her, slipping into a deep and thankfully dreamless sleep.

* * *

He was now free! At long, long last, his saviour had acknowledged him. He was no longer confined to that impossibly small space which had served as his home for the past...well, he did not know how long he had trapped there but it had felt like an eternity. But now he was free. Wonderfully, gloriously free!

He straightened up to take a look at his new surroundings properly. He found himself in a small, cluttered room, occupied with pieces of furniture that were both familiar to him, and others not quite so. A cream-coloured settee took up most of the floor space with a smaller pine table sitting just in front of it. On the opposite wall stood a curious black rectangular object on yet another low pine table with various other apparitions he had never seen before.

Along the walls, which were also cream in colour, there were shelves and cabinets filled with books, ornaments and many, many other odd items. Several paintings hung on the walls, too; the biggest appeared to be just a canvas with no frame, depicting an elegant-looking woman with dark hair and a long black dress with the words "_Breakfast at Tiffany's" _written underneath.

The whole room had a pleasant, airy feel to it as the first signs of dawn were beginning to shine through the window. He could also smell a trace of some agreeable fragrance in the room, and when he inhaled sharply – after reveling at the fact that he _could _smell at all – he caught the intoxicating scent of cinnamon. _Good_ _Lord_, he thought. When was the last time he had smelt something as delicious as that?

A faint hissing noise made him start slightly and he turned to see a silver tabby cat perched on the back of the sofa, staring at him suspiciously. Its back was arched slightly in defence, striped fur on end as it growled at him.

Keeping a safe distance away from the angry cat, the man crossed the room to peer out of the window and pushed aside one of the curtains hanging there; he remembered the views well from his home back in Somerset. But looking out over the narrow balcony outside of the window, the cityscape laid out before him was definitely _not _known to him.

There were several dull, greyish, rather ugly-looking buildings surrounding this one, and judging by their height, he was a few storey's high. In the distance, he could see more buildings of similar construction, with a few maple trees dotted here and there. He could also hear a faint rushing sound which seemed to be coming from a distant road just out of sight. Where on Earth was he? He had never seen a town such as this before. He felt a sudden pang of homesickness. Oh, how he missed the open countryside he so loved, rather than the noisy, smog-laden clamour of the city.

The joy that had swelled inside of him moments before at the knowledge of his newfound freedom had now dissipated, only to be replaced by something very close to panic. No... He must not panic, he just needed to keep a cool head. Being a cavalry officer demanded it at times like this. If anyone could tell him where he was, it was the young lady who was currently lying fast asleep on the sofa. He knew that he would just have to be patient, and wait for her to reawake before asking questions of his whereabouts. After all, he had waited this long, another couple of hours or so would do him no harm...

* * *

Martha shifted a little as the hazy morning ray of sunlight filtering through the gap in the curtains played across her face, pulling her into consciousness. She furrowed her brows as the bright light assaulted her closed eyelids with a sudden red glow and she made to roll over to try and escape the offending light. The first sound of the day which roused her from her slumber was Blossom's incessant meowing. It was a deep, growling mewing noise which the cat made whenever she wanted to be fed or was irritated by something.

"Okay, Blossom..." Martha mumbled, her eyes still firmly shut. "I'll get you your breakfast, don't keep on..."

Unfortunately, as she rolled over, she had forgotten she had fallen asleep on the sofa the previous night and landed on the very cold – and very hard – laminate flooring with a _thud._

"Oooowwww... " came a muffled whine from the floor before Martha stiffly pushed herself up into a crouched position, muttering a string of well-chosen obscenities under her breath and making a mental note to have carpets put down instead.

Rubbing her arm from where it had hit the floor, she rose to her feet and looked over blearily to see that the TV screen had blacked out and gone into standby mode after being left unattended. Letting out a jaw-cracking yawn, she shuffled over to flick the power button to shut the TV down properly before flopping herself back down onto the sofa. Her gaze fell once again to the pocket watch sitting on the little table in front of her. As though some kind of magnetic force was compelling her to keep looking at the timepiece, Martha plucked it from the tabletop and held it up to her face to squint at the faded lettering there.

"J...N... " she murmured to herself absent-mindedly, her lips pursed in thought as she pondered, not for the first time, the possibilities of what these could stand for.

"My initials," came a sudden voice from behind her. "That was my pocket watch...But now it appears it belongs to you."

Martha's head shot up and she turned around so quickly, she cricked her neck painfully but she took no notice. There was someone else in the room with her!


	3. In the Light of Day

**_Hello, guys! Thanks so much for the f__avs/follows, I really appreciate it. And shout outs to FlamePumpkin32, immysaurus, 'Guest' & catlikecupcakes for your reviews, I love you all, poppets!_**

_**Forgive me if Captain Nicholls is OOC at all; I've only seen War Horse twice so far. That said, I hope you enjoy this chapter! :)**_

* * *

**Time Knows No Boundaries ~ Chapter Three**

_No light, no light__  
__In your bright blue eyes__  
__I never knew daylight could be so violent__  
__A revelation in the light of day__  
__You can't choose what stays and what fades away  
_**'No Light, No Light' – Florence and the Machine **

_.:*:._

Martha snapped her head around with a poorly disguised yelp of fright. Her heart beating painfully fast in her chest, she drank in the sight of the tall, uniformed man standing calmly behind her, his hands clasped behind his back, looking for all the world as if he had always been there. A couple of shocked silent seconds spiralled in the air between them for a moment before Martha let out a petrified scream that was so loud, it was small wonder people living in the next county did not hear it.

Both the man and her cat jumped nearly a foot in the air at the abrupt sound; Blossom, not taking kindly to the noise, hissed and jumped off the sofa in fright to go and hide under a cabinet. How did such a small person make such a loud noise, James briefly wondered. Martha flung herself off the sofa in a flash, stumbling over the coffee table as she went, and spun round to face the stranger from the opposite side of the room, shaking violently from head to toe.

"Who are you? What do you want?" she babbled in a panicked voice. "How did you get in here? Look – just – just - take whatever you want, alright? Just don't hurt me, please!"

Had Martha been of sensible mind, she should have just remained calm and rung for the police. But there was no time for that; this intruder could have either murdered her on the spot or managed to escape just as unnoticeably as he had entered by the time the police would have arrived.

"No, please, Miss – I beg of you - !" James started, trying to make himself heard over the young woman's hysterical rambling, holding up his hands as though in surrender. "I promise that I mean you no harm!"

Martha's eyes darted around, trying to locate something which she could use for a weapon to fend him off with...Television – no. Chair - no. Table lamp...Possibly but no. Then her eyes lit upon Elliot's cricket bat that was propped up in a corner of the living room. She and Elliot weren't living together per se but he stayed over a lot and many of his belongings had ended up making themselves at home here. Martha seized the cricket bat and gripped the solid wooden object in both hands, ready to beat the stuffing out of this potential lunatic if he came anywhere near her.

"If you mean me no harm, then _why _the hell are you in my _flat?_" she demanded, trying to stop the tremor in her voice and failing appallingly.

James tried his best to keep his patience and composure in check. Being an officer of higher rank, he was far more used to getting things done by issuing orders and commands. This situation, however, required a different tactic. He needed to remain calm and make the young lady feel at ease; the way she had pinned herself against the wall, cowering, it was as though she was expecting him to suddenly charge and attack.

Martha's heart continued to pound at such a great volume, it seemed, that she swore he could hear it from where he stood. This man...There was something very familiar about him when he had spoken, and she was afraid why. It was exactly the same voice that had spoken to her at the antique shop, had whispered to her in dreams and made various remarks to her over the course of the week, including that one the night before. Only it was much clearer and more distinct. Much more _real._

When he failed to answer her, she stepped forward a little, gripping the cricket bat's handle even tighter and asked, "_Well?_"

"Please, Miss... " he began, "I must apologise for entering your home in this unseemly fashion, it was not my intention to frighten y– "

He had made to approach the young woman but found this was a fatal mistake.

_THWACK!_

He found the rest of his sentence cut short as he felt something extremely solid and heavy collide with the side of his head. Taken completely by surprise by this unexpected move, stars winking in front of his eyes, James felt himself become acquainted with the wooden floor. Martha, losing her head completely in her panic, plainly not listening to a word which he had just said, thought he was advancing on her to attack her. So she did the first thing that came to mind: she just swung the heavy bat as hard as she could at the stranger's head.

Trembling from head to foot, she snarled at him, "Either tell me why you're here or get out _now! _Otherwise I'm calling the police!"

James rose back to his feet with all the dignity he could muster, unhurt but feeling somewhat dazed. He warily eyed the bat in her hands which she was now pointing at him like it was a sword. He tried to evaluate the situation as a soldier. Technically, he was the intruder so she had the perfect right to defend both herself and her home but did she have to have hit him _quite _so hard? While it may not have been nearly as dangerous as a sword, the bat still made a formidable weapon (as he had just experienced, he thought with a wince). And how could they speak to one another rationally when she seemed hell-bent on beating him senseless? That blasted cricket bat was a posing problem which needed to be disposed of.

Martha was watching him as a series of emotions played across his face. When she saw he was approaching her again, she raised the bat threateningly, hoping that it would fend him off. When it didn't deter him, she made a wild swing at him again but she stumbled and nearly fell flat on her face when she did not make contact with anything.

She stared around at the space in front of her. He was gone! Wait, where did he go? She looked wildly around the room but he was nowhere in sight. Then she suddenly let out a shriek when she felt the cricket bat being tugged out of her grasp by an invisible hand.

Using her distraction of his sudden disappearance to his advantage (being deceased did have its perks after all, he thought wryly), James had made a move to remove the bat from her grasp. Martha let out a gasp but it didn't stop her from attempting to put up a fight as she stubbornly tried to keep a hold on the bat. However, it was a no-brainer about who was going to triumph in this "duel"; even as a ghost, he was much stronger than she was and it did not take much for him to easily disarm her.

Martha stumbled slightly under the force of him snatching the bat from her clutches and letting it drop to the floor with a clatter. Martha stared with large frightened eyes as her "weapon" was now lost to an apparently invisible opponent. She yelped when he suddenly materialised in front of her again. _How_ did he appear so suddenly?

Still not wanting to give in without a fight, she made to hit him with her bare hands though this did not go according to plan either as he caught her wrists easily. Reflexes kicking in, he then twisted her around so that her back was rammed against his chest, moving his arms to pin her own down so she was unable to hit out at him or be tempted to throw something at him. Martha let out another gasp of shock; as soon as they made contact, the first thing she noticed was that he was extremely cold. She wriggled against him, desperate to free herself, letting out small whimpers of protest.

Nicholls felt so horrible for being in this position; whatever did this poor girl think of him now? His attempt at trying to calm her wasn't going well at all. In fact, all he seemed to be achieving was to frighten her even more.

"Come, hush now," he murmured to her softly in a reassuring tone, feeling like he was trying to calm a skittish horse rather than a young woman. He always did have a certain rapport with horses. Women, on the other hand, were a different matter. "I can promise you that you have nothing to fear... "

His smooth, gentle voice reverberated through his chest and the feeling of it made Martha shudder but it seemed to have the desired effect. Despite everything, she found herself calmed somewhat by this man's tone though she wasn't ready to believe what he said was true. If he was a crazed lunatic, she didn't want to antagonise him any more than necessary. Realising that she was in no way his equal physically, she stopped fighting him and stilled herself, breathing hard. She felt furious with herself for being so weak and pathetic, and cursing the fact that she was short and that she should have taken up those self-defence classes with her friend, Cath.

"Do you believe me when I tell you I am not going to harm you, Miss?"

Martha closed her eyes and lowered her head in defeat. After a moment, he felt her relax just a little in his arms but he did not relinquish his hold on her. His eyes travelled the length of the room, taking in the assortment of odd furniture in the morning sunlight streaming through the window, his mind full of questions.

"Where on Earth am I?" he muttered, unwittingly voicing one of his queries aloud. This prompted Martha to open her eyes and let out a sarcastic snort.

"This is my flat, I thought I made that perfectly clear," she answered through gritted teeth.

"Well, I have never seen dwellings such as this before..." he murmured, as though he hadn't heard Martha's retort.

Martha dared to raise her head as she listened to his words. His manner of speaking, it sounded so formal and old fashioned. She dared to peek at his hands that were keeping her firmly in place. He appeared to be wearing brown leather gloves and she noticed the sleeves of a jacket belonging to a very old fashioned-looking uniform. She wished he would let go...he felt strangely..._cold_.

"Um...would you mind letting me go?" she asked in a small voice, "I promise I won't hit you again."

James' face coloured, remembering what close proximity they were in and released his grip. In stark contrast to his coldness, she had felt _so_ warm. He could not quite remember the last time he had such contact with another human being. All he knew was that was a _very _long time.

"Forgive me for my actions," he apologised, clearing his throat in embarrassment. "What must you think of me?"

"Well, I _did _just clobber you over the head with a cricket bat, I think that makes us even," Martha answered, her mind and heart rate starting to relax a little now that their confrontation appeared to be over.

She stepped a little away from him, regarding him warily. She raised her head so that she was able to get a better view of him and found herself unconsciously studying his features. She took in his short, neatly combed golden hair, his pale and drawn face. It was a _very_ good-looking face, what with his high cheekbones and strong jaw line. Handsome, in fact. Not that that mattered. He could have looked like a Hollywood movie star but that wouldn't have stopped him being a total nutter. He was very tall, six foot by the look of him; lean, broad-shouldered and powerfully built (as she had just witnessed). Right at this moment, he was staring at her with the most startlingly piercing eyes, bluer than a sky in June. But his eyes...there was a gaunt, haunted quality about them. They looked empty, shadowed, and lifeless. Like a light had been switched off from behind them. It was as though those eyes had seen horrors that no human being should see.

Martha's eyes swept over his person. His apparel was...intriguing, to say the least even if it looked strange in this environment. Martha doubted she could name half of what he was wearing but all the same, he looked very distinguished in it. The khaki-coloured military uniform fitted perfectly on his lithe frame. If he _was_ a burglar, then he was the most impeccably dressed burglar she had ever seen. As she looked, she noticed there was a ragged, scruffy hole in the chest of his jacket, just over his left breast pocket. For some reason, the sight of that ragged hole gave her unpleasant shivers down her spine.

James, in his turn, studied the young woman. The first most obvious thing about her was her height. At a petite five foot two, the top of her head only just reached his chest. She had a head of flaming red hair which tumbled down her shoulders and looking very dishevelled at the moment from where she had been sleeping and no doubt from their skirmish just now. But in the morning sun, it looked glossier than a thoroughbred's coat, framing a pale, heart-shaped face; a scattering of freckles on her rather long nose and on her arms.

He couldn't honestly say that she was beautiful. More interesting-looking than beautiful. But it was her eyes that held his attention...the most enchanting pair of sage-green eyes he had ever found himself lost in. They were intense but there was a great warmth there, even with the dark purple shadows beneath them. She was also wearing a loose shirt which bore the words, "Do I look like a morning person?" and strange, shockingly tight trousers, both in the most garish shade of pink that he had ever seen on a piece of clothing, clashing harshly with her vivid hair. It all added up to the fact that he never in all his life (or afterlife), ever seen a woman like this before.

A couple of minutes passed as the pair silently assessed one another but it was enough time for an awkward tension to form in the air.

Hating the silence, Martha asked in a slightly shaky voice, "W-Well, if you're not here to burgle me, or murder me or whatever...then why _are _you in my flat?"

"I fear I do not understand the situation entirely myself, Miss," James confessed, "I only wish that I did."

"It was your voice I heard in the shop, wasn't it?" she asked even though she knew perfectly well that it was. At his nod, she said, "Why? Were...were you stalking me or something?

"No, of course not!" he answered, his blue eyes widening, sounding shocked at the suggestion.

Martha suddenly remembered something. "Wait...did you say that pocket watch is _yours_?"

"That is correct. It did indeed used to belong to me. Those are my initials."

"Well, if that's all you wanted, you only had to say - "

_A chance would have been a fine thing, _James thought drily.

" - if you want it back so badly, go ahead and take it."

James let out a sigh, even though there was no breath in him to exhale. She still did not seem to understand what he was despite his little display of disappearing and appearing.

"I'm afraid it is not as simple as that," he told her gently.

"Why not?" she demanded, feeling unnerved by this mysterious man and frustrated at his lack of satisfactory answers. Then she added impatiently," Look, who _are _you?"

"My name is Captain James Nicholls of His Majesty's Cavalry - " The words 'His Majesty' felt strange to her ears but Martha stayed quiet to let him continue. "At least...I was when I was alive," he added almost to himself.

"Alive?" she squeaked in alarm, her eyes huge. "What the hell do you mean 'when you were alive'?"

"What I say..."

"Are you telling me that you're _dead?_" Martha asked derisively. From her tone, it was obvious she didn't believe him and thought he was deranged and James inwardly winced at how bluntly she uttered it.

"Since you put it like that...yes," he said.

"Okay, you're just freaking me out now..." Martha murmured, backing away towards her door, as though intending to shoo him out of it like he was a stray cat. "Can you just go?"

But before she had even touched the door, there was a jaunty _tap-tap-tap_ from the other side. Flinging it open automatically, she found it was her friend, Cath, who lived in the flat downstairs. A vivaciously friendly girl, Cath was always happy to stop and chat or lend Martha some emergency milk or sugar if ever she ran out.

"Hey!" she chirped. "I was just on my way out to work but I heard you screaming – are you okay? Is everything alright?

"There's a man – " blurted out Martha.

"What?"

"There's a man in my flat and I don't know how he got in but he's talking gibberish!" Martha said all in one breath.

"Oh my God – " Cath dashed past into the flat, her dark eyes roaming the living area. "Where?" she asked in a hushed voice, looking all around.

"There!"

Cath frowned. "I don't see anyone..."

Martha stared at her incredulously. What was she talking about? He was standing right there!

"He's...right there," she said uncertainly, even pointing him out to her even though it shouldn't have been necessary. She looked back at her friend quizzically. "Can't...can't you see him?" she asked.

"See _who?_" demanded Cath, staring at her. "Martha, are you feeling alright?"

Has the whole world suddenly gone crazy? _How_ could she _not_ see him? Unless she was lying? But why would she do that?

Cath had now walked right into the flat, staring all around in search of a person who was only standing a couple of feet away from her, so she could hardly fail to have noticed him. James watched the whole exchange calmly, waiting patiently for Martha to discover the inevitable for herself. Cath was getting closer and closer to him; any minute now she was going to collide straight into him. But still she continued walking as though completely oblivious to his presence and he didn't even move. Martha was about to call out a warning to her but what she saw next made her voice die in her throat and nearly caused her to faint...

Cath had just walked... _straight through him. _Martha's jaw dropped.

"There's nobody here, Martha...I think you must've been dreaming."

But Martha was hardly aware of what her friend was saying; she was too busy gaping at the mysterious stranger, who seemed entirely unperturbed that somebody had just passed through his person as though he were nothing more than a mere shadow. He cleared his throat quietly.

"I think I may be right in thinking that not only can your friend not see me but neither can she hear me..." James glanced at Cath and judging by her lack of reaction, it proved his theory correct. He continued to address Martha, "I think it may be wise if you were to follow her lead and just tell her you were dreaming."

Martha closed her mouth and in spite of herself, she heeded what he suggested.

As casually as she could, she said to Cath, "Uh...d'you know what? You're right. I must've dreamt the whole thing. Ignore me...I haven't been sleeping very well recently – " At this she threw an accusing glare at the ghostly stranger, who bowed his head slightly, looking faintly abashed at her words. "I must just be missing Elliot, that's all."

Martha was surprised to find that her voice remained quite steady as she said all of this and hoped she had sounded convincing enough so that Cath wouldn't think she was going mad.

Cath, however, smiled understandingly. "Of course you are," she said, patting Martha's arm comfortingly. "But he'll back in no time, you'll see. Oh, that reminds me! Here..." She delved into her handbag and pulled out a little brown opaque bottle half filled with what Martha could clearly see were pills. "Elliot mentioned you weren't sleeping well. Why don't you try taking one of these to help you sleep?"

"What are they?" Martha asked, eyeing the bottle warily.

"They're these tranquiliser thingy-ma-bobs. Don't worry, they're not dodgy! They're prescription and everything!" Cath assured her, spotting Martha's alarmed expression. "I got them off my old gran. They're for calming you when you're stressed. I take them when I'm on my period. It's okay, they're dead mild...I mean, I still throw random objects, only...loads slower." She grinned mischievously at her friend.

"Um...no thanks, Cath, I think I'll pass if it's all the same to you."

Cath shrugged unconcernedly. "Suit yourself!" she said cheerfully and put the bottle back in her bag, "Anywho...I've got to dash off. I'll see you later...and get some proper sleep!" she added firmly, just like Elliot had done and she click-clacked off down the hall in her high heels.

"Fat chance of that," Martha muttered under her breath as she shut the door and turned to stare at the ghostly captain, who met her gaze evenly.

There was a few seconds of strained silence, that awkward tension returning in full force, before he asked gently, "_Now _do you believe me?"

* * *

_**Reviews would be most appreciated, lovely people!**_


	4. A Lost Kitten

_**Hello everybody! Thanks so much for the favs/follows and for the wonderful reviews on my last chapter! :) BIG BIG thank you's to : HoldOnToThisLullabye, immysaurus, FlamePumpkin32 & 'Guest'. You are all amazing and I love you! I hope you all enjoy this update.**_

* * *

**Time Knows No Boundaries ~ Chapter Four**

_No one can blame you__  
__For walking away__  
__Too much rejection__  
__No love injection__  
__It's only forever, not long at all__  
__Lost and lonely  
_**'Underground' – David Bowie **

.:*:.

For what felt like a long time, Martha stood there, trembling like a leaf. So many confused thoughts were scurrying around her brain like a swarm of busy ants as she stared at the stranger before her. There had to be an explanation that was slightly saner than the truth, surely, despite what she had just witnessed. But still reality sat there, growling at her from its mental cage.

Still continuing to stare suspiciously at him, Martha made her way across the room with difficulty; her leg muscles had gone numb with shock and didn't seem to want to cooperate - even more so than usual as she was a terribly clumsy person. Her legs had an extraordinary talent for getting tangled up with things like rugs, tablecloths and other such items. She often joked that when God rained down gracefulness and balance, that she must have been holding an umbrella. However, she kept a safe distance from him, skirting around him as though he had some sort of fatal disease she was afraid of catching but still not once taking her eyes off of him. James watched her mutely, awaiting her reaction, hoping very much she would not start screaming again. To his intense relief, however, she didn't.

"You're...you're a..._ghost?" _she eventually whispered hoarsely, her green eyes searching his.

"It would certainly appear so," James answered.

Martha looked him and up and down, heart thudding painfully hard in her chest. But he looked so _solid. _It didn't seem at all possible for Cath to have just simply walked right through him as though he didn't even exist and yet Martha couldn't deny the evidence of her very own eyes; she had seen it for herself. Cath really hadn't a notion that he had been present in the room. Sensing her doubt and fear, James sighed a little.

"Miss, I am very sorry for giving you a fright like that and for putting you through any embarrassment with your friend...but I just couldn't find a better way to prove to you what I was," he explained.

"No, I guess not," Martha said quietly, still continuing to stare at the soldier like he was nothing of Earth.

"You disbelieve the existence of ghosts?" James guessed shrewdly, raising his eyebrows as he watched her expression.

Martha only shook her head in a non-committal manner. She had never really given the subject much thought if she was perfectly honest. True, she was an open-minded individual and had never scoffed at the idea of spirits continuing to exist beyond the grave, no more than she scoffed about the existence of aliens or of the Loch Ness monster. But she always associated ghosts as floating, transparent beings, who spent their time after death haunting creepy gothic manors, not with tall dashing officers trying to vainly make conversations with living people in antique shops.

_This doesn't make any sense!_ A voice in Martha's head screamed. If he was really a ghost, what the heck was he doing here in her flat? Why did he talk to _her? _Why would any respectable spectre choose to haunt her of all people anyway? She was hardly the most interesting or important of people.

She ran her hands distractedly through her mess of coppery hair, making it even more dishevelled than it was before. James favoured her with a gentle, sympathetic smile, apparently aware of the turmoil going on in her reeling mind.

"I know this must be very strange for you, Miss, as it is for me. I do not blame you in the slightest for being dubious," he said understandingly, "If I were in your shoes, I daresay I would be the same way."

Martha continued to stare at him, her hands curled into fists at her temples as though trying to hold her head together. The rational part of her brain was telling her that this was complete madness and yet like before, there was a soothing quality to his speech which seemed to help appease her. When he spoke, his voice was the consistency of warm honey, effectively calming her, and she welcomed it like a hot beverage in the early morning chill which still lingered in the flat. His voice seemed to have a thawing effect on the rest of her body too as she felt the feeling come back into her legs and it was then that she realised she had stopped trembling. She lowered her hands slowly.

"But...but...what are you doing _here_?" she managed to sputter out at last. "How did you even get here?"

"Surely you must already know the answer to that?" James said, his gaze settling on the coffee table in the middle of the room and Martha followed his line of vision to see he was looking at the pocket watch which was sitting there, lying open and she realised that she must have dropped it in her panic at his sudden appearance.

"The watch?" She slowly walked over and hesitantly picked up the tarnished piece with trembling fingers, squinting at the initials engraved there. Her eyes darted between him and the watch, remembering all those times she had heard his voice over the last week. "You...you were haunting this watch?" she questioned.

James was heartily relieved that she had managed to grasp that concept so quickly.

"Yes, I was...Though I didn't exactly have a lot of choice in the matter."

Martha noticed that there was an odd, faraway look in his eyes as he gazed at the pocket watch in her hands, apparently lost in thought, his expression unfathomable. After a moment, he seemed to snap out his trance-like state and looked in her in the eyes. After the consternation he had put her through, James felt the very least he could do was to be honest with the young lady.

"I will try my best to explain but as I said, I don't fully understand the situation myself..."

Martha said nothing. She only waited for him to continue.

"At the time of my...demise, I was carrying the watch in my pocket. Somehow or other, my soul or my spirit, if you like, became trapped in the watch. Don't ask me how or why for I do not know... When my body was recovered to be buried, whoever it was moving me found the watch in my pocket and took it for themselves..."

Despite herself, Martha involuntarily felt a rush of disgust and revulsion. Did some people have no respect that they felt the need to thieve from a dead man?

James continued, "As far as I could tell, over the years, the watch has been passed on and changed hands many, many times. I tried to leave the watch but found I could not. So I endeavoured to try and ask for someone's help. I tried desperately to call out to the watch's new owners... Again and again I tried to make _any _sort of contact with them to beg them for my release...to let my spirit be free."

"And did any of them hear you?" Martha asked quietly though she could guess by his solemn expression what the answer would be. His shadowed eyes found hers.

"None of them did."

Martha listened to his story and she could feel her heart go out to him. There was a longing in his voice...he sounded so lost. Though not in a way like he was fishing for sympathy. She heard the frustration and desperation at trying to contact those people with absolutely no success. It must have been so unbearably lonely for him.

"In the end, I had to convince myself that I was just going to have to accept the inevitable...that my soul was doomed to remain all alone trapped in the watch in that gloomy little shop. But just when I began to lose hope, _you_ came along, Miss...You picked up the watch and I dared to hope that there was a chance you would hear me. I just _had_ to try and reach out to you. And for some reason, I cannot even begin to fathom, you _did _hear me. So imagine my sheer joy that you decided to purchase the watch and eventually you freed me..."

"Freed you? What did I do, rub the watch?" she asked, thinking of Aladdin rubbing the lamp to release the genie.

"Last evening, you acknowledged me and it was that which ultimately freed me. And I don't know how I'll ever repay you but I am _so, so_ grateful to you, Miss. More than you could_possibly_ imagine."

He made a sudden strange motion with his arm as though he had made to reach out to grasp her hand just to show how tremendously gratified he was but had then thought better of it. He did not wish to appear so forward or to make her feel uncomfortable. Martha was silent for a moment, stunned by this sad story and at the knowledge that she had unknowingly helped to release a ghost from the confines of his time-keeping prison.

"Well...you're very welcome but...why me? How come I heard you when no one else has done before?"

"That is a very good question," James answered, "As to that, I don't know. This is the part that I do not understand."

The pair lapsed into silence as they simultaneously pondered any feasible explanations as to why Martha was the only one who could hear or see the captain. Martha was going over his story in her mind. Now she felt truly terrible for kicking off like she had and hitting him over the head with the cricket bat; all of that time spent trapped in a watch and look at the welcome he had received when he was at last released from it. She grimaced and bowed her head, shamefaced.

Mistaking her expression, James murmured, "I have told you all that I know... If you wish for me to leave, I will more than understand. The last thing I want is to inconvenience you – "

Martha's head immediately shot up to stare at him.

"After what you've just told me? No, don't be silly! You don't have to leave. I wouldn't want you to."

Apart from anything else, now that she had appeared to have gotten over her initial shock (at least a little) at having a ghost in her home, she found Captain James Nicholls truly fascinating and found herself now wanting to know more about him. After all, it wasn't every day that one was haunted by the spirit of a handsome soldier!

James was awfully relieved to hear her say those words. He honestly did not wish to leave. All of that time spent in miserable solitude... Apart from feeling obligated to repay her (somehow) for his freedom, and though he didn't even know this woman, it just felt so _wonderful_ to actually speak to somebody. Now that he had found someone at long last he could actually communicate with, he did not want to let them slip out of his grasp so quickly. But there was something else...Unbeknownst to Martha, James found her just as intriguing as she found him. As the two had been talking, a curious little thought kept niggling away at the back of his mind. There was something familiar about her but for the life of him, James just couldn't think why, he could not explain it. It almost felt like she was a long-lost friend he had once known but he didn't see how that could possibly be; he had never met her before this day. Perhaps he was imagining things.

Though he had to marvel at this complete turnaround in her attitude; only moments ago, she had thought him a lunatic and was all too eager to be rid of him. Something of his thoughts must have shown on his face, for Martha continued,

"I just feel _really _bad for hitting you with that bat. I feel like I've just kicked Bambi... I'm _really_ sorry," Martha apologised, "Are you alright? Did I hurt you?" she added, her brows furrowing with concern, wondering if it were possible to actually physically harm a ghost.

But James only waved an elegant hand dismissively. "No harm done," he said, "I was winded somewhat but I think my pride was hurt more than anything else," he assured her, which made Martha smile a little in relief that she had not caused him any damage.

Looking around, the redhead spotted his hat on the floor which must have fallen off when she had hit him over the head. She went over and bent to pick it up. That too was cold to the touch as though it'd been placed in the refrigerator. She came back and handed it to him in a friendly gesture, a shy, hesitant smile forming on her face.

He accepted it with a quiet "Thank you", returning her smile. When her fingers momentarily brushed against his gloved ones, Martha felt goosebumps erupt up and down her arms at his icy temperature but fought the impulse to recoil. Up close, she saw the markings on his uniform, confirming that he was indeed a captain.

"You're welcome...Captain."

Her eyes found the scruffy hole on his chest and wondered what had happened to bring about his death. But she knew better than to ask. It was none of her business, anyhow. James, meanwhile, turned his gaze towards the window. He looked outside at the less than picturesque view. A thick morning frost glittered on the metal rail on the balcony outside in the weak light of the autumn sun and he could hear the distant shouts of playing children and a dog barking somewhere.

"Could you tell me where we are please, Miss?" he asked. He presumed he was in Britain, judging by the young lady's accent.

"We're in Taunton," answered Martha.

So he _was _back in Somerset, James mused. After everything that had happened in France, after changing hands so many times, the watch had managed to wend its way back to where it originated, like it had some sort of homing instinct like swallows returning for the summer. He looked out the window at the surrounding estate of flats.

"I am familiar with the town but that is not the Taunton I remember," he said, frowning slightly at this unattractive outlook.

At this remark, Martha began to wonder how long ago it was when he had died. Judging by what he was wearing and how he spoke, it was pretty obvious to her that wherever he was from, it wasn't in this time period. She wondered if he was aware just how much time had gone past. She tented her fingers together in thought before wringing her hands a little nervously.

"Um, Captain?" she began carefully, feeling she should address him by his title out of politeness to make up for the fact she had nearly bashed his brains in. He turned away from the window to face her. "This might sound like a weird question to you but...what year do you think it is?"

"It was the year 1914 when I...passed on," For some reason, he couldn't bring himself to say the word "died". Martha's eyebrows had shot up in surprise.

"_1914?_ Wow..." she breathed. All that time all alone? How horrible for him.

"I am aware that many a year has gone by since then," he added, his astonishingly blue eyes travelling briefly over Martha's outfit and the strange apparatus in the room (her television and the various shiny appliances in her kitchenette).

"You're not kidding..." She sighed, "Okay, listen...you might want to brace yourself. You're right, it's not 1914 anymore. It's the year 2012."

Martha let out a slow breath to let this fact sink in. She saw his face whiten and James felt a twinge in his knee as his leg nearly gave out in shock. Two _thousand _and twelve? Whatever he had been expecting to hear, that _wasn't_ it. He had been imprisoned in the pocket watch for nearly _one hundred years_? He had had absolutely no idea it had been as long as _that_. James had to grip the back of a nearby chair to steady himself at this shocking revelation. Unfortunately the chair slipped slightly under his weight and skidded a little on the wood floor, almost causing him to fall. But a small pair of hands had reached out to grasp his arm to steady him.

"Oh my days...I'm sorry! Here sit down... Maybe that was too much at once..."

Ignoring the peculiar feeling she got when she touched him, she helped him into the chair. This was rather difficult as he was much taller than her – and much heavier, despite being a ghost. Martha briefly thought how strange this situation would look to someone if they just walked in right now, to see her grappling with someone who was apparently invisible.

James allowed himself to be steered onto the chair, hardly aware of what he was doing. Trying his utmost to keep his composure, he held his head in his hands. Everything he once knew was gone. So all of those fine, brave men...his comrades, Jamie, Charlie...men he was proud to call his friends (assuming of course, they had even survived the charge)... His family, his darling little sisters... Even his magnificent mount, Joey. Everyone he ever knew. They were all gone? But most of all..._her. _The very person who had given him his pocket watch in the first place. He never got the chance to see her beautiful face one last time. At this thought, he felt a great ache in his chest where his heart should have been. Also, his position as a captain probably meant absolutely nothing now. He was faintly aware that the young lady was speaking.

" - There's quite a lot of major events have happened since your day like..." Martha hesitated to think, "...the Great Depression...World War Two...the Cold War... Nine eleven, of course...But then there's other stuff like the invention of television...the first man landing on the moon - technology has come on leaps and bounds in quite a short space of time if you think about it actually...These days, most things are all automated or done by machine. I guess you could call this "the digital age"..."

Martha stopped, catching herself. She did have the tendency to ramble at times and she really hated dominating a conversation for fear of boring other people into a stupor. It was worse when all she managed to achieve was to confuse people and seeing as the poor captain was almost one hundred years behind on current affairs, this wasn't exactly helpful.

"It's quite a bit to go over..." she finished in a murmur. She looked down at him and she felt her heart give a little clench of sympathy. Sat like this, his big blue eyes as wide as saucers, he looked like a small frightened boy, a fish out of water. "Bless your heart...you look like a lost kitten," Martha said softly, "Are you feeling okay?"

James had in fact been listening to her and was a little startled by the question. Despite the rambling, he actually found her voice quite pleasant to listen to (even if he hadn't understood all of what she'd said) and once again, he had that strange sensation that she was familiar to him in some way and he still did not know why. Pushing that thought to one side, he let out a heavy sigh.

"It's just...a great deal to take in, that's all," was all he could murmur in reply.

Martha bowed her head, feeling responsible in a way. It wasn't her fault that she was the only one to be able to see and hear him but she had been the one who brought him here. She always felt compelled to help others in need, even if in the past, this compulsion had led to others taking advantage of her at times. But that still hadn't quelled that urge of wanting to aid people. Elliot said sometimes that she was too much of a soft touch and that she needed to learn to say no to people, but Martha couldn't help the way she was.

"I'll help you," she told him earnestly.

James looked up at her, his expression weary. She looked most sincere.

"That is most kind of you but you have done more than enough for me already, Miss..." James trailed off, realising for the first time that he didn't know her name.

"Oh, sorry...my name's Martha. Martha Burton. And that maybe so but I want to help."

James rose to his feet. No matter how bizarre the situation, basic courtesy was not to be overlooked. Martha watched curiously as he stood in front of her, his tall frame towering over her much smaller one but not in any way that was intimidating. He then graciously bowed to her, something that she most certainly was not used to.

"Thank you, Miss Burton, for your most generous offer."

This simple and yet so mannerly gesture actually made Martha feel a bit giddy. She didn't think she had ever been bowed to before. Who knew that a ghost could be so polite? A wide grin involuntarily working its way onto her face, she responded by crossing one leg behind the other and bobbing a curtsey like she had seen in films, if not a slightly clumsy one.

"The pleasure is all mine, Captain Nicholls," she answered, unable to contain a slight chuckle.

She straightened up, smile still in place which promptly faded when her stomach gave out a very loud rumble. Martha's face flushed a little and James' mouth curled into an amused smile, which transformed his face immeasurably. If Martha thought him handsome before, he was definitely even more so when he smiled.

"Well, I don't know about you but this haunting lark has made me hungry," she said, now thinking wistfully of a breakfast of coffee and bagels. She was just about to make for her kitchenette, when she thought of something and turned back to her new housemate.

"Do ghosts eat?"

* * *

_**I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Reviews would be absolutely marvellous, they do help to encourage me. All reviewers can have their very own Tom Hiddleston - with or without the uniform, it's your choice ;)**_


	5. It Seems I Still Have a Tear to Shed

_**Hello, chaps and chapesses! I haven't forgotten about this story, I promise. I've been super busy. Thank you, thank you, thank you to all you lovely people who have reviewed, added to favourites/follows so far. Some interesting theories about why Martha is familiar to James from some of you, I must say. But I'm remaining tight-lipped for now ;)**_

_**Shout outs to: HoldOnToThisLullabye, Loki-licious1121, Kiwi, Lady Krystalyn, SilverTortoise, immysaurus, Lulu, harrylee94, KittyxCat1509, Eternal3007, compa16, sydneyramirez (and for your lovely PM!), **__**Flower**__** and Sparky. I love you all very much and I hope you enjoy this next chapter :)**_

_**And it's about time I put a disclaimer on this thing so I own nothing to do with War Horse, nor do I own Captain Nicholls – though in my own mind, I do, ehehe. And if anyone knows what film the lyrics at the top of this chapter are from, then a Steve Rogers badge of reference-understanding to you!**_

* * *

**Time Knows No Boundaries ~ Chapter Five**

_If I touch a burning candle I can feel no pain__  
__If you cut me with a knife it's still the same__  
__And I know her heart is beating__  
__And I know that I am dead__  
__Yet the pain here that I feel__  
__Try and tell me it's not real__  
__For it seems that I still have a tear to shed  
_**'Tears to Shed' – Danny Elfman **

**.:*:.**

Martha did not see any reason why a spirit shouldn't eat; she was thinking of that green, slimy ghost in the film, _Ghostbusters, _where it did nothing _but _scoff down food. She was highly thankful for the fact that James Nicholls – or rather, the ghost of James Nicholls, did not look anything like _that._

It transpired, however, that ghosts did in fact have the capacity to eat, though as James explained to Martha, he discovered they didn't really need to nor have that urge to, like living people did. He was already feeling tremendously grateful to her but as it looked like he was going to be staying here indefinitely, he did not wish for her to unnecessarily waste her food on him when he didn't really need it. But Martha could see just how shaken up he was over the news that almost a century had gone past since he last walked on this Earth, and in her experience, nothing was more comforting in a crisis or stressful situation than comfort food. So, for now, just to be polite towards his hostess, James accepted Martha's offer of breakfast.

"Please do sit down," she said, pulling out a stool with a black leather cover by an island which divided the kitchen area from the rest of the living space. She directed the captain towards it, nearly knocking over another stool in the process.

His mind still abuzz with their earlier conversation, James did as she requested and perched himself on the stool, laying his hat on the shiny, granite countertop next to him. Up until this point, he had not seen much of modern technology and he gazed curiously at all the shiny appliances which sat on the other kitchen surfaces, some strange to him, others not so strange.

Letting out a nervous breath, Martha started to bustle around her miniscule kitchen. It was a great relief to know that the voice she'd been hearing had not been due to her going stark raving mad. Still, the mystery remained why only she could see and hear James. Did she have a knack for clairvoyance that she didn't know about?

"You...uh...don't know if you're allergic to any food in particular, do you?" Martha enquired of her new guest nervously.

"Not that I am aware of," answered James, stripping off his leather gloves as he spoke, "though under the circumstances, I don't think that it makes a lot of difference, do you?"

Martha winced a bit, hoping she hadn't sounded crass and looked back at him over her shoulder, an apologetic and slightly embarrassed smile on her face.

"No, I don't suppose it does, really..."

An awkward silence shivered in the air between them at that moment and Martha quickly busied herself with the task of making coffee and plucked two mugs off the mug tree, including her favourite _Nightmare Before Christmas _one.

_This is utterly crazy...What am I doing? _she thought, freezing for a moment. _Here I am, I'm making breakfast for a _dead _guy!_

But that did not mean that he had to be treated like he was some sort of detached entity. He was still a normal person, a normal man - even if he _was _dead. And right now he was a man who was lost and stranded in unfamiliar territory. While he did not strike her as the type of person to accept pity, he still was in need of some reassurance. Martha quickly decided that she would treat him as she would any other living, breathing human being. James, meanwhile, watched her mutely as she brought a curious black and silver device down from a shelf and gathered various items from cupboards. He then proceeded to study his surroundings and thought about what he had just been told, about being dead for nearly one hundred years.

"I expect that you've got about a million questions," Martha spoke up after a while, as though reading his mind, her back still turned to him as she fiddled with her coffee machine.

She was not wrong there, James mused. There were dozens and dozens of questions dancing around his brain and he wasn't certain which he should start with. There was a whole new world all around him to learn about and had to get his head around. For now, he opted for the one query which seemed to trouble him the most.

"Are you certain that I do not hinder you in any way?"

He could not help but feel that his presence here would be a huge inconvenience for her. Martha, however, after placing some bagels in her toaster, swivelled around on the balls of her feet to look at him and favoured him with what she hoped was a casual smile.

"No, not at all! I told you before I wouldn't want you to leave. I know this place is hardly Buckingham Palace..." she gestured vaguely at her kitchen, "but you're more than welcome to stay here. That is...if you want to, of course?" she added uncertainly.

"Where else would I go? Everyone I once knew is most certainly gone," James spoke quietly, almost to himself, his eyes upon the speckled counter in front of him unseeingly.

Looking up, he caught the expression on Martha's face, and James realised he sounded more bitter than he intended. His eyes softened and he gave her an apologetic smile.

"I'd be delighted," he said gratefully, "I thank you for your kindness and hospitality, Miss Burton." Martha sent him a swift smile and as she turned back to what she was doing, he could not help but ask, "Do your parents not live here also?"

Nobody had rushed to the young woman's aid to assist her during their altercation earlier before her friend had arrived, so James could only assume she did not have any household staff, and nor were there any signs at all of any concerned parent come running to find out why their daughter had screamed with such distress, meaning that it was just the two of them here.

"I don't live with my parents," she answered as she flicked a switch on the coffee machine, "and I haven't done for three years now. This is my own flat."

James started a little at the sudden loud noise the coffee machine emitted. It was most peculiar. The only sound that he could compare it to was that of a rutting stag.

"You live here all by yourself?" he asked her in surprise.

"Yes, I do." Spotting the slight frown on her new ghostly companion's face, Martha sighed and explained, "Okay, what you have to understand that in this day and age, things are going to be quite a bit different to what you're used to. A woman is at perfect liberty to live by herself independently if she chooses. I can take care of myself quite easily. I can cook for myself and everything."

As she spoke, she laid out some cutlery and James noted the way her stance and tone had stiffened a little when she had answered and he had the distinct impression that her pride had been a tad dented at the implication that she could not cater for herself.

"I meant no offence, Miss Burton," he apologised.

Martha relaxed and smiled at him again. "Don't worry, I know you didn't..."

Another slightly awkward silence spiralled around them then, though it was broken by the abrupt sound of the bagels popping out of the toaster. James jumped at the noise again and mentally chastised himself to pull himself together. He was never normally this twitchy. He watched Martha open up a large white cupboard, whose insides appeared to light up when opened and she brought out a small tub of what turned out to be butter. Or "Sunflower spread" as the brightly-coloured label proclaimed.

Martha greatly enjoyed cooking and baking at the best of times, and although it was only a simple meal she was preparing, it felt quite pleasant to do it for someone other than herself or Elliot for a change.

"And here, Captain, is your first taste of the modern world," she said cheerfully, whirling around and placing a plate and a steaming mug in front of him with a flourish, "Enjoy!"

James looked to see that the breakfast in question was cinnamon and raisin bagels.

"Thank you..."

Martha went to park herself on a stool opposite him. He stood abruptly to pull it out for her so that she could sit. Martha stared at him for a couple of seconds as though unused to such gallantry, before smiling and murmuring her thanks.

Once they were both sat, Martha took a soft sip of her coffee, gauging the temperature, but found it too scalding for her to drink just yet. Instead, she found herself studying the captain as he spread his bagels, completely forgetting about her own breakfast for the moment. He appeared too solid to be a ghost, though he did look rather on the pallid side like he'd been recently ill. She couldn't help but to quirk a little smile when she saw his crystalline blue eyes light up when he took his first mouthful of the sweet bread. After all, it was the first meal he had had in such a long time, and it didn't take him long to get well stuck into his second bagel. Her eyes swept over his uniform, which admittedly looked _very _nice (Martha was certainly not immune to a man in uniform) but oddly out of place in her modern abode, and once again, over that raggedy hole in his chest.

_He must've died during the First World War, _she quickly deduced. Why else would he be dressed so?

He was such a young man too; twenty-something, by the look of him, perhaps a little older. It was a really _terrible_ tragedy to think that he - and millions of other fine, brave young men like him had lost their lives in the war, fighting for king and country. For she felt pretty damn sure he did _not _get that hole in his chest from something like a fever.

When she glanced back at his face, she suddenly realised he was looking at her and she blushed profusely at being caught openly staring at him.

"Sorry," she muttered, averting her eyes back to her coffee, her cheeks now in fierce competition with her red hair.

_Poor man doesn't need to be goggled at like an animal at the zoo, _she thought.

Martha let out a tired yawn. A weeks' worth of disturbed nights and going through a sea of different emotions this morning was starting to catch up with her. James, meanwhile, had just taken his first swig of his coffee and felt like he had just tasted the sweet nectar of the Gods. He wrapped his hands around the mug, savouring its warmth. Oh, how _glorious _it was to experience the simple pleasure of eating and drinking again.

"How d'you like your bagels?" Martha enquired brightly as she rubbed at her eyes, "I made them myself, you know."

James finished chewing his mouthful before replying, "Most delicious, Miss Burton, thank you. I can't quite remember the last time I tasted something so wonderful..."

"Glad to hear it," she grinned.

Attracted to the sounds coming from the kitchen, Martha's tabby, Blossom, had emerged from her hiding place to come and investigate. She wound herself around her mistress's legs, mewing expectantly as if to demand, "Well, where's _my _breakfast?"

"Oh, I'm sorry, darling!" Martha cooed at her beloved pet, feeling bad for forgetting her. "I'm such a bad mummy for neglecting you."

She hopped back off the stool to fetch some food for the cat. Once she had eaten her fill, Blossom leapt lightly onto a stool beside James and began to daintily wash her paws. The cat did not seem at all perturbed by his presence, so he held out a hand towards her. The tabby sniffed uncertainly at his fingers, then after a while, as though she deemed him worthy of her affections, allowed James to pet her. She butted and nuzzled her soft little head against his cold hand, purring loudly with contentment. Martha paused, watching the pair of them in bewilderment.

When James noticed her bemused expression, he asked, "Is something the matter, Miss Burton?"

"No, it's just...that's so weird..."

"It seems that animals can see me also?"

"Well, yes – but I wasn't thinking that. It's just that Blossom let you stroke her."

James looked down at the beautiful silver tabby, who seemed perfectly happy being made a fuss over. Her green eyes had closed in pleasure as James scratched at the side of her head.

"Should I feel honoured?" he asked with an amused smile.

"You should do; Blossom doesn't like other people in general. She's normally too frightened of them. I found her abandoned in a cardboard box out on the streets, poor thing. Took _me_long enough to gain her trust. She never leaves the flat, the furthest she ever goes is the balcony..." Martha nodded towards the window, "She still doesn't even like Elliot, though you would think she'd be used to him by now."

At the mention of the name "Elliot", James turned his gaze towards a nearby cabinet, upon which were several framed photographs. A couple of them depicted a smiling couple, and he instantly recognised Martha with her vibrant head of coppery hair with a tall, dark-haired man. Judging by their affectionate poses in the pictures, he did not appear to be a brother or a family member of that kind. He turned back to face Martha.

"And Elliot is...your husband?" he asked her. He thought she'd said she lived alone?

"No. We're not married," she said, and sure enough, James could see no ring upon her wedding finger, though several others glittered on her hands. "What I mean is...we _are _together but just not married. You will find loads of couples these days don't ever get married."

Martha felt she was too young to settle down. She and Elliot liked the freedom of living apart. James turned this over in his mind, not entirely sure what to make of it all. Modern technology, it seemed, was just the tip of the iceberg. Martha was right; it seemed that twenty-first century customs were very different as well.

"And where is he now?" James questioned.

"He's gone to the land of hobbits and sheep... New Zealand," she added, at his nonplussed expression, "He's gone to visit family over there."

Were he alive, James felt sure he would have felt a heat creep up the back of his neck and onto his face. So here he was alone with this young woman, who lived on her own. No parents. No guardians, escorts or chaperones. Only in his more..._intimate _fantasies had he thought of being in such a scenario. He mentally shook his head, immediately pushing those inappropriate ideas away.

"But you didn't wish to accompany him on his trip?" he asked before his imagination could run completely riot.

"_I _wasn't invited," she answered, sounding a bit put-out, and James noticed the warmth in her green eyes dim.

Sensing it was a sensitive subject, he decided not to pursue the issue. But something else bothered him now. This Elliot chap was bound to be returning soon enough from his travels and James could not help but feel yet again that his being here was going to pose a problem for Martha, despite what she had insisted.

"Miss Burton..." he began, clearing his throat awkwardly.

"Martha," she corrected, "you can call me Martha, if you like. I mean - it's lovely to meet someone with such nice manners but "Miss Burton" makes me sound like a strict schoolteacher. And if we're going to be friends, it sounds too formal."

_She already considers me to be a friend_? He thought, a little taken aback by her statement. The overwhelming realisation that he was all alone in this new world hit James hard in the stomach. It was some comfort to know that he had an ally – a _friend -_ here who was at least willing to lend him a helping hand.

"Oh...Very well then. I suppose in that case, you may call me James," he told her softly.

Another silence ascended upon the twosome as they ate the rest of their meal. Blossom, realising she wasn't going to be receiving any more attention from the ghostly stranger, jumped down off her stool and padded away to seek out a sunny spot to sit in and groom herself. Martha absentmindedly picked at the raisins in her other bagel with a neatly-manicured finger, thinking hard. She wondered what she was to do with the soldier now he was here. What would happen once Elliot got back from New Zealand in three weeks' time, or if anyone else called in at her flat? How long was Captain Nicholls' spirit going to stick around for? Would his soul eventually pass on? Martha also knew she was going to have to be careful not to speak to him when others were around. If it was really true that she was the only one who could see or hear him, the last thing she needed was for other people to think she was going around the twist, believing she was having conversations with herself.

_Guess we'll have to cross that particular bridge when we get to it..._

Her eyes fell upon the pocket watch sitting innocently on the countertop. It seemed hard to imagine that a simple object had such curious links to the supernatural.

"Your pocket watch..." she started.

"It is yours now," corrected James, "Bought and paid for."

"Oh no, I wouldn't dream of giving it to my dad now!" Martha shook her head adamantly. "I have no right. It belongs to you."

James gazed at the tarnished piece before picking it up, running the pad of his thumb over his initials that were engraved there so intricately and with such care. Martha noticed his eyes had that faraway look again, apparently lost in his own thoughts.

"It's a lovely piece," she said admiringly, "It caught my eye in the shop straightaway. Where did _you _get it, if you don't mind me asking?"

"It was a gift," said James.

"From a special someone?" Martha guessed.

"Something like that," he answered quietly, almost sadly, which prompted Martha to ask,

"Are you – I mean, _were _you married...when you were...alive?"

James hesitated, staring at Martha with the most penetrating gaze with those startling blue orbs, and she couldn't fathom what emotion lay there and feared she may have spoken out of turn. However, he answered her after a moment.

"No, I wasn't..." he spoke quietly.

"No? You surprise me," said Martha, "Good-looking guy like you...I bet you had a queue of women beating at your door - " James flushed a little at her compliment. "Did you have a girlfriend then? Or a sweetheart? I don't know what you called them back then," she said with a shrug.

"I did have a sweetheart," James nodded, "But we never got the chance to marry..."

He did not elaborate any further than that and by the way he had bowed his head, his shadowed eyes sombre, Martha could tell that this particular avenue of conversation was now closed. She stood and picked up their empty plates and mugs. James broke out of his reverie and made to help her but she stopped him.

"No, no! You stay there. Let me at least treat you as a guest. But don't expect this sort of service all the time," she added, shooting him a friendly wink to let him know she meant it jokingly.

Despite himself, James smiled back at her, responding to her easy-going manner. After Martha had taken care of the washing up, she turned to him, wringing her hands a little.

"Righto...um...I'm just going to have a shower and get dressed. I won't be long. You...uh...make yourself at home, and I'll see what we can do about introducing you to the delights of the twenty-first century. "

She flashed him a sunny grin and James felt a sharp jolt in the place where his heart should have been. There it was again...that feeling of familiarity. Why? He watched her retreating figure though before she left the room, he called out to her.

"Miss Bur – Martha?" he corrected himself.

She paused to look back over her shoulder at him. "Hm?"

James hesitated. The enormous gratitude he felt towards his new patron was so great that somehow he could not quite translate it into words. So he just settled with,

"Thank you for everything."

She gave him one last fleeting smile and a nod before disappearing through a doorway he assumed led to her bedroom. He looked back down at the pocket watch in his hands and it wasn't long before his thoughts began wending their way back to when he was first given the watch all those years ago...though to James, it felt like it was only yesterday...

* * *

_(Flashback)_

"_What are you hiding behind your back, darling?" James asked smilingly._

_The fair-haired woman strolling alongside him shot him a mischievous grin, her arms held behind her so that her hands were hidden from view._

"_It's a surprise," was her only answer, a playful glint in her brown eyes._

_Beads of dew shimmered in the grass in the morning sunlight like millions upon millions of tiny diamonds beneath their booted feet as she and James walked. It seemed entirely wrong that the day was so beautiful when the dark and threatening cloud of war was so imminent._

_Her hair was swept up in the style that was fashionable for ladies, but a wayward strand had escaped from its confines and hung about her face. James personally preferred it when her hair was left loose and free to cascade around her shoulders in a waterfall of gold. He did so love her hair; it shone like spun gold especially out in this dazzling sunshine._

"_You know I don't do very well with surprises. Come on now, don't keep me in suspense," he grinned at her._

_She eyed him up and down, a furtive smile playing about her lips._

"_Very well, then... Close your eyes and hold out your hands," she said playfully, "Go on!" she added with a laugh when James looked dubious._

_He gave her one last look of a mixture between amusement and suspicion before sighing good-naturedly and heeding what she said. He shut his eyes and held out his glove-clad hands. After a couple of seconds, he felt the slight weight of a small something being placed in his outstretched palms._

"_Alright...you can open them."_

_James looked down to see a little neatly wrapped box in his hands._

"_What's this in aid of?" he asked, his curiosity piqued as he pulled at the blue ribbon that was tied around the box._

"_Well...I was intending to save it for your birthday," she said, "But I thought in light of...everything – " And by "everything", James knew that she meant the war, " - now seemed a good time to give it to you..."_

_Although her tone remained light and cheery, it was clear by the way she spoke that there was still that underlying painful despair that the two of them were going to be parted in just a matter of days when James left for France, and that lingering fear that he may possibly not return to her. But that was her all over; no matter how dire a situation, she always tried to remain positive._

_James lifted the lid of the box to find inside a splendid silver pocket watch. But it was the finest piece of craftsmanship he had ever seen. It glinted in the sun and he could clearly see an intricate leafy vine design and also his own initials. He was so touched by such a gift that he was at a loss for words._

"_I had it engraved specially," she said. She watched him, eagerly awaiting his reaction. "You don't like it?" she asked in disappointment, her brows furrowing, mistaking his expression for that of disapproval._

_James raised his head to look her in the eyes, feeling that his heart may just explode with the love he felt for this woman._

"_My dear, it is beautiful," he told her sincerely, "Thank you for such a wonderful gift... I only wish I had something to give to you in return."_

"_You already have as I remember rightly," she replied, glancing down at her hand where a golden ring inset with a single sapphire sparkled and the two shared a smile. That same hand reached up to gently stroke his handsome cheek. "You don't need to give me anything, my love. Just you being here with me is enough..."_

_James' own hand crept up to cover hers, his thumb caressing the skin there oh-so softly as though he thought even the slightest pressure might break her._

"You _are all I could ever want, James darling...I love you."_

"_And I love you."_

_The two of them wrapped their arms around one another in a tight hug, before James leaned in to capture her lips with his._

"_Now, now, don't be bad," she laughed, gently pushing him away before things could get too heated, her face flushed. She was one of the few ladies he had come across who could actually blush prettily, her cheeks taking on a soft rosy glow. "We are not yet married and tongues will wag!" she mock chided him._

"_So let them wag," James answered, a sly smile of his own working its way onto his face, "I have but a mere few days left with you and I shall kiss you as much as I please."_

_And he pulled her into yet another loving embrace, to which she did not object to._

* * *

The corners of James' eyes began to sting but he blinked rapidly, refusing to allow any tears to fall, keeping them at bay. He leant his elbows on the counter, holding his head in his hands. He felt empty inside. The momentary pleasure of consuming those delicious bagels had long since dissipated. Part-and-parcel with becoming a ghost, he supposed. Once again, the loneliness became awfully stifling. That memory and the fact that he was never going to see his beloved ever again was enough to make him want to break down and openly weep. But he managed to keep his composure; he was still a soldier and he would conduct himself as such...even in the afterlife.

He really had absolutely no idea what lay in store for his spirit whilst being here under Miss Martha Burton's roof, though he was ready to bet that it was going to be an interesting experience, if nothing else.

* * *

_**You have no idea how many times I rewrote this chapter. It's been prodded and poked within an inch of its life! But I hope you wonderful people enjoyed it. This time all reviewers can have their own Tom Hiddleston in a towel, those who've seen him in The Hollow Crown will know what I mean! ;D**_


	6. The Next Great Adventure

_**Hello, munchkins! Gosh, I'm really sorry for being such a rubbish updater! But thanks soooo much for all the amazing reviews and to those who have added to favourites/follows. You do warm a girl's heart. :)**_

_**Shout outs to: compa16, harrylee94, SilverTortoise, Loki-licious1121, 4everYoung93, 'Guest', Kiwi, floralpatterned-teacup, Raven AEvans, MacMhuirich, Natasha Alhaurin, 'Guest', Lady Krystalyn, OmgGiratina, Black-Moon-Onaa-Inu, Le Hiddleslover, PhoenixCrystal, PirouettingPixarPixie. You're all fantastic and I love you!**_

_**I do hope you enjoy this chapter, my dears! :)**_

* * *

**Time Knows No Boundaries ~ Chapter Six**

_After all, to the well-organized mind, death is but the next great adventure.  
_**'Harry Potter & the Philosopher's Stone' – J.K. Rowling**

**.:*:.**

_Forget the captain, honey; _you're_ the one who looks dead,_ Martha thought to herself, staring at her reflection in her bedroom mirror with something close to disgust. Her hair was an absolute mess, her face looked tired and drawn, and there were dark purple shadows beneath her eyes.

_And to think he's had to look at me over breakfast like this...ugh..._

Martha wrinkled her nose, running a hand through the coppery strands. She was never usually one who obsessed over her appearance but - deceased or not - there was a dashing soldier in her home; a gentleman from 1914 (she still couldn't quite get her head around this fact) who was dressed so meticulously that it made her feel like a complete scruff.

She took as quick a shower as she could so that James didn't have to wait for long. She hated to keep people waiting. Once dried, she raked a brush through her hair, trying to tame the rust-coloured waves into submission before deciding to leave it loose to fall around her shoulders. Her hair was rather prone to frizzing and she prayed it would not decide to pick today to go into frizz-overdrive. After applying some mascara, eyeliner and lip balm, which was the usual extent to her makeup, Martha began to feel relatively human again.

Her taste in clothing was very relaxed; she disliked wearing low-cut tops as they made her feel uncomfortable, and she rarely wore dresses except for maybe on formal occasions. Today's chosen outfit was a dark green long-sleeved shirt and blue skinny jeans. Martha found herself hovering in front of the mirror again rather longer than she normally would, hands on hips and a slight frown playing on her face. Then she had to stop to think to herself, _why _was she suddenly so concerned about how she looked? Because of _him?_

_Oh, for God's sake, _she rebuked herself, shaking her head a little. She was twenty-five years old, not some silly giggling teenager. What did it matter really? If he was to remain here, the captain was going to be seeing women dressed in all manner of fashions he was unfamiliar with and no doubt find quite shocking, so he may as well get used to it. Martha had never in all her life dolled up just to make herself seem anaesthetically appealing to a man, so she didn't see why she should begin now.

She _s_lipped on her new brown brogues, which were already scuffed at the toes even after a week's worth of wear; but considering they enveloped her feet nearly everywhere she went these days, this was hardly surprising. Martha smiled down at them fondly; she loved these shoes. They had a bit of a heel to them so they made her appear taller than she actually was, and she had customised them by re-lacing them with satin ribbon.

Suddenly remembering, Martha quickly checked her phone for any new messages or emails from work. Reality seemed to have taken a back seat during her whole encounter with her new ghostly housemate. But it all came flooding back to her now, hard and fast like a raging tsunami. However, she had nothing pressing which needed to be dealt with straightaway, much to her relief and secret joy. Anyway, she didn't think she'd be able to concentrate on her work even if she tried!

Letting out a faint sigh, she gazed around her cosy little sanctum that was her bedroom, biting her lip in thought as she began to ponder on how she should go about beginning to introduce James to the modern way of life.

Unlike the rest of her flat, which was rather cluttered with all the numerous treasures she had collected over the years from antique shops or car boot sales, her own room was quite tidy. Feminine-looking and neatly-furnished, and the walls were painted in a delicate shade of pink with a set of white fairy lights strung across the window to give it that cosy glow.

Her eyes fell upon her bookcase and she began to search through her varied collection of books, trying to seek out anything which might come in useful. Much to her great disappointment, however, she couldn't find anything which would help James. Martha let out a sigh and straightened up, deciding not to keep the captain waiting any longer and returned to her living room.

She was half-expecting to find him still sitting where she'd left him but he wasn't anywhere in sight. For a few panic-filled seconds where she couldn't see him, Martha thought he had disappeared altogether. She soon relaxed when she spotted him standing over by the window, staring off into space, and apparently unaware that she had re-entered the room. Martha vaguely wondered to herself why she had felt so alarmed at the thought that he had vanished when she hardly even know the man. Shaking her head a little, she watched James for a moment or two.

The sun had risen properly now, flooding the room with pale autumnal light, though the chilliness in the air had lessened. The sunlight played across his already pallid countenance, making him look almost transparent. It wasn't difficult to see why he had been appointed an army captain; he stood tall and proud with a handsome, dignified presence. He definitely was a fine specimen of a man and couldn't be mistaken for anything but pure male.

He was gazing out of the window but his eyes were unfocused and vague, completely lost in his thoughts. His thin lips were set into a firm line, so whatever he was thinking about, it could not have been of anything happy.

He still didn't seem to have realised that she had come back, so she thought it was about time to make her presence be known...

* * *

More out of wanting something to do and to keep his mind from lingering on bittersweet memories of his beloved fiancé, James had been wandering aimlessly around the flat. He wasn't snooping - goodness, no! That would be unseemly and the height of bad manners. He was merely genuinely curious about his new hostess – his new _friend – _he corrected himself - and what wonders the year 2012 had to offer. Going by his conversation with Martha during breakfast, there was a great deal for him to learn.

Blossom, who was sitting in a sunny spot on the floor and washing herself, had now taken to completely ignoring him. Every so often she would freeze as the shadow of a passing bird flew past the window before she resumed her grooming.

In a large, glass-fronted cabinet, James could see there was an array of ornaments and knick-knacks. Things like Victorian trinket-boxes, a wooden pipe-rack, a delicate crystal cruet set. He even spotted a number of wonderfully preserved fossils; a few ammonites and what appeared to be a gigantic tooth which no doubt had belonged to some ancient creature of immense size.

All of the items he noticed had a second-hand air about them. Treasures which looked like they had been lovingly restored back to their former glory. James looked back at the tabby cat and remembered what Martha had told him about rescuing her from starving on the streets. Picking up waifs and strays and nursing them back to health apparently seemed to be an occupation of hers. He could not help but feel he was another one in the long line of those waifs and strays...

Pushing that thought aside, his gaze shifted to a mahogany desk right next to the cabinet, upon which were untidy stacks of papers and magazines. There was also an odd, slim device which opened up like a briefcase. The top half was some sort of flat screen whilst the bottom consisted of a black tray full of square-shaped buttons laid out similarly to those on a typewriter. Indeed, they were marked with letters much in the same manner, along with numbers and other symbols. Was he in fact looking at the twenty-first century equivalent of the typewriter? It seemed the only logical explanation.

Feeling rather pleased with himself at this deduction, James turned his attentions to the rest of the living room. The other objects in here, however – the television and the CD player - he had no clue as to what they were, though he was sure Martha would explain in time. On the opposite of the room, was a large bookcase, so James ventured over to investigate. There were titles here that he thankfully recognised. He spotted the works of Dickens, a leather-bound collection stacked neatly in a row. There were also titles from the likes of Jane Austen and Conan Doyle, so he could assume that Miss Burton was an enthusiast of the classics.

He turned to look out of the window, out at the townscape below that was both familiar and not so familiar to him. He remembered visiting Taunton several times with his sisters though he was ready to bet it would be very different now. He wondered if his family had lived on happily after his death. He dearly hoped so. Were his descendants perhaps living somewhere in those homes out there?

And his fiancé... James let out a heavy, laboured sigh. He hoped that she had not mourned him for too long; that she had carried on living her life to the full and was happy. Before he knew it, he found it wasn't long before his musings turned to that fateful day at Quiévrechain in France...

* * *

_(Flashback)_

_The air was filled with the tumultuous thunder of horse's hooves on grass, their petrified whinnies of pain combined with those of wounded men's cries..._

_He had never been more terrified in his whole life. He had never experienced open warfare. He was only used to practice drills and charges. Nothing on earth could have prepared him for anything like this, nothing. He felt little more than his small ten-year-old self merely playing at war and soldiers._

_He saw the gun swing around to face him, and time seemed to slow down... Everything else seemed to cease to exist... It was like looking into the jaws of Hell itself and there was nothing he could do to escape it, and James Nicholls knew it. He was barely aware of his beautiful steed, Joey, whose powerful muscles moved beneath him, continuing gallantly, obliviously on. The poor creature was no doubt as terrified as he was._

_He never used to understand what people meant by "an out of body experience", but in that moment, he wasn't certain how else to describe it. It did not seem real somehow. But it was real alright. Horribly and brutally real._

_He could hear the blood pounding his ears as images swam unattainably before his eyes...images of his family...of the young farm boy to whom Joey had belonged to...his promise to return him safely... Images of _her..._her gentle face, her sparkling brown eyes which lit up whenever she was passionate about something...her beautiful smile... he would never forget the day when he had proposed...how she had stuttered unintelligible words of shock before throwing her arms around him... How he'd thought he might simply burst with joy when she had accepted..._

_He swore that he heard somebody shouting his name. It might have been Jamie's voice but he couldn't be sure. He may have imagined it -_

* * *

"Would you believe I don't even own a single decent history book?" a different voice suddenly spoke as though from far away. Then, after a moment or two, much closer this time: "Hello? Earth to Jimbo!"

The tone was cheery and sing-song and James started slightly as he was broken out of those distressing memories for which he was most grateful for. He turned dazedly, visions of his beloved's brown eyes melting away only to find himself looking into Martha's green ones instead. She was now standing before him, looking up at him in concern. He had not even noticed her return.

"Oh, um...forgive me, I was miles away," he apologised, blinking a few more times to try and rid those awful recollections of the charge from his mind's eye.

"Somewhere nice, I hope," Martha said. When he didn't respond, she tilted her head slightly to one side to get a better look at him. He seemed most troubled over something.

"Are you okay?" she asked softly.

"Yes...yes, I'm quite alright," he assured her, forcing a smile. He did not wish to worry her unduly. The events which had brought about his death was something he was _not _willing to share yet awhile. It was still too raw. "I'm sorry, what were you saying?" he asked.

There was a fleeting look of doubt laced with concern on her face as though she wasn't quite buying it when he said that he was alright, but then she shrugged a little and her expression cleared.

"I said, I can't believe I haven't got a single decent history book that you could read..."

James was looking curiously at her outfit. She was now sporting a simple green shirt, which set off her red hair much better, and was a bit more pleasing to the eye than her previous attire had been. His eyes then involuntarily widened a little. Were those _trousers_ she was wearing? They were shockingly form-fitting, highly accentuating her – he couldn't help himself – rather shapely legs. Was this considered normal for ladies of this era to wear?

She was now browsing through her bookshelf on tiptoes, but the nearest she could find was a book all about dinosaurs and natural history. He wasn't _that _old. That wouldn't be any good.

"I guess we'll be needing a trip to the library or bookshop," she said.

"Listen...you really do not have to put yourself out like this – " James started.

"No, don't be silly, it's no trouble," Martha answered, turning to look at him and waving a dismissive hand. "I know you could easily look up anything you wanted to know on the internet or on the history channels on telly, but I think there's nothing quite like reading a book somehow."

The words "the internet" and "history channels on telly" were strange to James' ears; he had no inkling of what they meant at all.

Emitting a light sigh, he murmured, "I suppose this will all mean something to me eventually."

Martha walked back over towards him, a sympathetic smile on her face and she patted his arm bracingly, despite his peculiar icy temperature.

"They will, don't worry...you've just got to take things one step at a time, that's all."

He nodded mutely. He still seemed rather saddened about something, and Martha hated seeing people so unhappy.

"Hey...cheer up, peacock..." She lightly nudged him with her shoulder in a friendly manner, and she was glad to see the corner of his mouth quirk into a little smile at this new nickname she'd given him. "How about I show you some things round the flat, eh? Slowly familiarise yourself with new technology first before catching up with what's happened since you die – I mean, uh – you know..."

She realised she was rambling again and trailed off in embarrassment.

"That sounds as good a plan as any," replied James with a nod and her face then broke into a grin.

"Righto...um, what should we start with?" Her eyes travelled the room before she led him over to the machine he had puzzled about earlier.

"Okaaay...let's start this. This here is a CD player. You listen to music on it. You know like gramophones?" At James' nod, she continued, "Well, this works kind of in the same way only with discs instead...we call them CDs, which stands for compact disc..."

He watched curiously as she gathered up a handful of what looked like shiny thin boxes that had been sitting on top of the machine and began to shuffle through them.

"Led Zeppelin...Queen...Pink Floyd...no, no, those will never do," she muttered under her breath, and James wondered what on earth she was talking about. "Methinks we should introduce you to today's music slowly. Better stick with something familiar... "

She took another one of those cases down from a rack and pressed a button on the front of this so-called music player. A little tray emerged from it and James watched closely as Martha placed a disc onto this tray and pressing a button again where it promptly disappeared. A moment later, the room was filled with the soothing sounds of a piano. He immediately recognised the beautiful opening notes of Beethoven's _Für Elise_.

James let the calming melody wash over him, pleased to at last hear something that was familiar. The music was so beautifully clear; clearer indeed than listening to a phonograph. It was as though there were a concert pianist right there in the room with them, playing for their entertainment. He remembered how he and his sisters enjoyed going to concerts and operas when he was alive.

"My sisters and I loved going to concerts to hear music like this," he said, unwittingly voicing his thoughts aloud.

Martha looked round at him. Immediately, his demeanour had changed. His eyes had softened and his face had relaxed into an indulgent smile.

"You had sisters?" she asked him, and his smile widened.

"Yes, I did. Two younger sisters: Olivia and Katherine. They drove me to distraction at times, they would tease me unmercifully – Livvy especially. But we were the best of friends..."

There was obvious love in his eyes but also underlying pain and longing there as well. He would have given anything to be able to give his dear sisters a hug right now. _Anything_.

"You must miss them terribly," Martha murmured as the track came to an end.

James cleared his throat, and then cast around for a change of subject. It pained him deeply in his heart of hearts to think he was never to see his sisters ever again. His gaze fell upon Martha's _Breakfast at Tiffany's_ poster on the wall nearby.

"The lady in the portrait... Is she a relative of yours?" he enquired.

Martha noticed he did not seem very keen on talking about himself, hence the change of subject.

"Pfft...I wish!" she laughed, switching off her CD player, "That's the _fabulous_ Audrey Hepburn. Wasn't she beautiful? She's one of my favourite actresses. Hey, did you start to have films back in your time or not? Well, now people can enjoy them in the privacy of their own home. Here, I'll show you... "

She then endeavoured to show James the workings of the television and did her best to explain the concept of movies and DVDs.

They spent the rest of the morning continuing to make their way around the flat, Martha showing him this, pointing out that. James did his best to try and remember it all, what these various undoubtedly ingenious inventions were and how they functioned. He felt a bit foolish having to keep on asking questions but Martha was patient with him and was happy to oblige him with answers where she could. But she was no expert of things like electronics, cables, satellites or radio signals, not without consulting a book.

She paused to check her phone to see if Elliot had texted but she had no messages. Though she didn't really expect to hear from her other half just yet.

"What is that exactly?" James asked her, and Martha glanced over to see he was referring to her phone.

"Oh, this? This is a mobile. It's a portable telephone," she explained. She held it out to show him.

"_That _is a telephone?" he asked, raising his eyebrows in surprise. He took the slim, metallic object from her to gaze at it in wonder. It was unbelievably small and lightweight. "But it is so small..."

"I know, crazy, isn't it?" Martha said with a little laugh, "But they come in dead handy, you can get in contact with anyone practically from anywhere – provided of course, you can get a signal."

James shook his head a little in faint disbelief as the front of the phone emitted a white glow and he could see a number of colourful little squares on the screen, though he had no idea what they were for. Martha had been right when she said about technology advancing so much in what was quite a comparatively short period of time. As he was busy marvelling over all this, the redhead was tapping her chin in thought.

"Hey, uh... how would you feel about going out for a bit?" she suggested, "Not for long. Just to the library and back?"

The library, she felt, was the ideal destination as a first trip out to see the modern world for the first time. It was usually quiet there on a weekday. In many ways, it was a good thing him being a ghost; at least she didn't have to worry about dressing him in modern clothing so that he could blend in with everyone else. That way, she could take out as many books as she liked so James could sit and read at his own leisure.

James considered her question for a moment. His spirit had been trapped in the pocket watch for so long now. On the one hand, he was mighty curious to see how the world outside the refuge of Martha's home looked nearly a hundred years later. But was he quite ready to experience it firsthand? He looked back at Martha, who was wringing her hands, awaiting his answer.

He shifted his feet, a little discomfited. All this dependency on a young woman left him in an inner turmoil. Here he was in a time where nobody knew either his name or his position; he had little understanding of how the way of the world now worked and surrounded by all this strange, new technology. Here he was, a fully-grown man, who just so happened to be a Captain of His Majesty's Cavalry, now somewhat co-dependent on a young, unmarried lady who lived alone. He knew he would just have to swallow his pride about this for the time being.

He favoured Martha with a smile.

"I believe a trip to the library sounds an excellent idea," he agreed, and Martha grinned widely again.

"Yay!"

She clapped her hands enthusiastically and scurried over to a sideboard to grab her keys before going to fetch for her leather jacket, scarf and bag. James couldn't help but smile at her animated eagerness, and picked up his cap which was still sitting on the counter where they had eaten. Even though he was sure that nobody else was able to see him, James still felt the need to at least _look_ the part of a gentleman, even if he was a ghost.

As Martha locked the door behind them, James found himself in a long, very shabby-looking corridor. There were a number of other doors further along which he presumed led to other homes. The two of them managed to make it all the way down to the ground floor without meeting anyone thus avoiding any awkwardness. Before opening the front door, Martha looked round at James.

"Ready for the world, Captain Nicholls?" she asked.

James, who had in fact been trying to mentally prepare himself the whole way down from her flat, answered, "Ready as I'll ever be, Miss Burton."

Without any further hesitation, she tugged on the door, which creaked as though in protest, and they both stepped out into the chilly October air.

The wind immediately stung fiercely at Martha's face. She wrapped her scarf a bit tighter round herself, her breath mushrooming out and fading into the bitter air. James, of course being dead, was unaffected by the sudden harsh temperature. A small flight of steps led down from the front of the huge building.

Just before they reached the pavement, Martha's ankle gave way on the last step and she tripped. She let out a yelp but she found her fall broken by a pair of strong but freezing cold hands. She gasped, both at the added coldness and the sudden close proximity she found herself in with the ghost. It felt like she had just been plunged into a bucketful of ice.

"Are you alright, Miss Burton? Are you hurt at all?" he asked quickly.

"No, no, I'm fine, honestly," she babbled, smiling at his concern, "I'm always tripping over stuff, I'm a total klutz."

James let go of her arms, satisfied she was unhurt, hoping he hadn't seemed too forward. Martha straightened up, inwardly cursing her severe lack of gracefulness and tucking her hair behind her ears.

"Um...shall we?" she said, her cheeks turning pink. Though whether that was due to the cold or because of him, it was difficult to tell.

They began to walk side by side along the pavement, James' booted footsteps making not so much as a sound on the concrete. Martha hesitated by the garage compound but then thought better of it to fetch for her motorbike. _Another day, perhaps, _she thought. Thankfully, the library was within walking distance of her flat and Martha thought it may be best for James to observe the world around him on foot the first time around.

As they walked, James took the opportunity to take in his new surroundings. It was the one of seediest locations that he had ever set eyes upon. Some nearby community bins overflowed with used nappies and bags filled with all sorts of disgusting household waste; and what didn't fit inside was left to decompose on the ground, gusts of wind blowing the reeking mess into the doorways of neighbouring flats. A small group of unattended children were noisily playing nearby with a football. Tangles of weeds thrived beneath the unkempt hedgerows which divided one small patch of grass from the next. Several plastic bags skittered along the road even as James watched.

The sight gave him yet another pang of yearning for his home back in 1914. Flickers of his life danced tauntingly in his mind's eye. He missed his family's house in the beautiful Somerset countryside, with its warm crackling fires and rolling green fields where he spent many a happy hour out riding. Those were the things he longed for right at this moment.

Low laughter met their ears and James glanced up sharply. A group of teenage boys stood gathered around a lamp post on the pavement opposite, hoods pulled up over their baseball caps to hide their faces as they conversed together, heads bowed. A thin plume of smoke shivered in the air above their heads. Martha wrinkled her nose at the smokers as the stink of tobacco drifted towards them as they passed. She eyed them with their waistbands of their jeans halfway down their backsides and the torn hems dragging on the ground. She couldn't help but compare them to the smartly-dressed officer beside her, looking positively resplendent in his uniform by comparison.

_Oh, how times have changed, _she thought to herself wistfully. Unknown to her, James was thinking something along those same lines. She looked sideways at him to see a slight frown crease his forehead as he looked out at the area before him with an expression of mild distaste.

"I know...horrible, isn't it?" she said.

"Well, it's very...it's very..." James trailed off, unable to find the right words, trying to be diplomatic to the young lady. He did not wish to insult her.

Martha, however, let out a soft laugh.

"It's okay, you don't have to lie. I hate it here on this estate," she added to him in an undertone, not wanting the boys to think she was talking to herself. "If I could afford it, I'd move for sure."

At last, they arrived onto the main road, and James suddenly found his senses assaulted by an onslaught of noise and colour. Cars whizzed along the road, their engines revving and horns blaring from impatient drivers. A low rumble of an engine made James start and he watched as a bus crawled to a nearby stop. A number of people emerged, chattering, from the vehicle. He noticed that some of them were wearing similar articles of clothing to Martha's as they each went on their own way.

Smiling slightly at the mixed expression of shock, awe and perhaps a bit of horror on James' face, Martha said, "Welcome to the twenty-first century, Captain."

* * *

_**A/N: Okay, so after reading a couple of people's reviews, I just want to ask...how would you, my readers, feel if there WAS some kind of romantic connection between James and Martha? I wasn't sure about going down that particular road; I didn't know if it would be considered too creepy. After all, he IS dead. If I was to include it, it definitely wouldn't be anything major. But I don't know... Should there be any romance or should they just stay friends? I'd appreciate your thoughts and opinions, dears! :)**_

_**Anyway, I hope you beautiful people enjoyed this chapter. This time, all reviewers can have their own Loki in a suit and scarf to have their way with (ehehehe) ;)**_


	7. Culture Shock

_**Oh wow, thank you all for the positive and encouraging reviews. It seems you would like a romance of some kind then. I was half expecting your response to be 'You sicko, get out!' :P **_

_**Shout outs to: AussieMaelstrom, Lightest'Ink, LokiLipsSewnShut, 'Guest', immysaurus, megumisakura, PirouettingPixie, prettytimemachine, PhoenixCrystal, sparki111 (for all three of your reviews!), crisis what crisis (your review made me smile like an idiot, let me tell you) & Golden28. **_

_**All the feedback has been spectacular. Whenever my email chime goes off on my phone, I grab it like it's a crack pipe. Thank you all SO much, I love you!**_

* * *

**Time Knows No Boundaries ~ Chapter Seven**

_Strange maze, what is this place?  
I hear voices over my shoulder  
Nothing's making sense at all  
Wonder why do we race?  
When everyday we're running in circles  
Such a funny way to fall  
Tried to open my eyes  
I'm hoping for a chance to make it alright  
When I wake up, the dream isn't done  
I wanna see your face and know I made it home  
If nothing is true, what more can I do?  
I am still painting flowers for you  
_**'Painting Flowers' – All Time Low **

**.:*:. **

Mrs. Erin Parker let out a sigh as she gathered up some of the books in the children's reading corner which were strewn haphazardly all over the carpeted floor, or carelessly abandoned on beanbag chairs. She tutted and shook her head at the sight of the bent pages and spines, for it saddened her seeing books being treated in such a devil may care manner.

She had been working as the librarian here at Taunton Public Library for a good thirty-four years now. These days, she noticed that fewer and fewer people seemed to enjoy visiting the grand old building, since it was much easier accessing reference via the internet. Either that or others preferred to use all these eBooks, Kindles and the like that were now available to buy. Erin, being the old-fashioned soul that she was, did not really care for these gadgets. She much preferred the solid feel of a proper book to sit and pore over rather than a screen. Books had their own special perfume, their own special way to comfort people, in her opinion. She felt that they had souls in a sort of way. Machines didn't have souls.

Once she had tidied up the children's corner, she glanced at the clock and thought she would go and grab herself a cup of coffee in the staffroom. She passed by the high bookshelves of the history section and caught sight of a flash of red. She glanced down the aisle, smiled and nodded at the young woman who was lingering there and avidly scrutinising the weathered titles on the shelves. Erin had seen her enter the library ten minutes earlier, her distinctive red hair drawing the eye like a flaming beacon, glancing around surreptitiously when she had walked in. One of Erin's pastimes included people-watching (sometimes there was little else to do whilst working in a library) and she had watched as the girl had made a strange little motion with her hand as though beckoning to someone, before heading for the area where the reference and non-fiction books were kept.

Erin was just about to walk on when she came to a sudden juddering halt. Frowning, she doubled back slowly, the sensibly low heels on her shoes clip-clopping on the wooden floor. She thought that she could hear some frantic scrambling around. She peered curiously back down the aisle at the red-haired girl, who looked rather flustered, her arms now full of books.

She quickly gave Erin an innocent smile, nervously tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. Erin returned the smile and made to carry on walking, feeling a teensy bit puzzled. But then she shook her head, dismissing the impossible idea that had sprung to mind. No, no, that was ridiculous... After all, what was this, _Harry Potter? _It must have been a trick of the light or something...

But she could have _sworn_ that she had just seen a pile of books _floating in_ _mid air_...

* * *

When the librarian had thankfully passed on by without comment, Martha blew out her cheeks in relief, having just snatched the books out of James' hands that he had offered to hold for her. Any time she came across a likely-looking book, she passed it to him, momentarily forgetting that no one else could see him apart from herself.

"That was close," she whispered to him, "We're going to have to be _so_ careful..."

The Taunton Public Library was just as James remembered it from the outside. A large, very grand building with magnificent stone columns and wide steps leading up to the glass double doors. Inside, however, it was a different matter. Like everything else he had seen thus far, it had all been modernized.

Erin Parker may have thought that a lot of people no longer enjoyed visiting the library but Martha wasn't one of them. She liked their peaceful atmospheres, and just like her fondness for frequenting antique shops, you never knew what sort of treasure you could unearth.

Their journey to the library had been quite an illuminating – if not downright unnerving – experience for the captain. It had quickly become apparent to him that the area of Taunton where Martha resided was clearly the least attractive parts of the town. In all honesty, Taunton's town centre was not as unrecognisable as he initially imagined it would be. True, it was much noisier and busier; cars of various sizes and colours sped along the tarmac roads, only to pause every now and then at the traffic lights. (He took a great deal of interest over these peculiar creations which seemed to amuse Miss Burton no end.) But there was the post office where James remembered it. So, too, was the parish hall, he was quite relieved to see.

He and Martha walked side-by-side along the wide pavement where they could, Martha manoeuvring around other people as they jostled past her. James stared as they passed brightly-lit shop window displays of places like opticians, banks and department stores, which added splashes of colour to an otherwise grey world. He also took the opportunity to observe other people on the street. Some were dressed casually, some in smart suits, carrying briefcases, some apparently talking to themselves until James realised they must have been using those mobile telephones that Martha had shown to him earlier.

As they walked, Martha watched him drinking it all in with a boyish, wide-eyed wonder. So absorbed he was and so busy looking around at everything, he paid no mind to the unfortunate individuals who walked straight through him, completely oblivious to the fact that he was there. Although she noticed that they all flinched and shuddered after they had passed, like they had suddenly been caught in an icy draught.

Remembering their skirmish with the cricket bat that morning, Martha asked now, remembering to keep her voice down, "I know others apparently can't see you, but can you deliberately go invisible? Like, if you didn't want me to see you?"

"Certainly," James answered cordially, and he obliged by demonstrating this newfound talent of his.

Martha had to cover her mouth with one hand to bite back a yelp of shock when he suddenly disappeared from view and she was left staring at the shelves of reference books behind him.

"Are you still there?" she whispered uncertainly after a moment or two.

"Yes, I'm still here," came the soft timbre of his voice, apparently from nowhere, and she could hear the faint trace of a laugh in his tone.

She watched, aghast, as he shimmered back into being before her eyes, as solid-looking and dashing as ever. He smiled at her astonishment; the expression on her face was priceless.

"Wow... How do you do that?" she asked, awestruck, "Is it hard to do?"

James shrugged a little.

"I don't know for sure. All I know is that it comes as natural to me as breathing does for you."

Recovering herself a little, Martha asked, "Could you...walk through me? Like when Cath walked through you this morning?"

"Why would you wish me to do that?" the ghost asked dubiously, raising a pale eyebrow.

It was Martha's turn to shrug.

"I'm just curious, is all," she answered.

"I don't want to make you feel uncomfortable," James told her.

"Well...just your hand then," Martha said, holding up one of her hands which wasn't holding the books, so that her palm was facing him.

James hesitated for a moment before bringing up one of his own slender hands to mirror hers. He didn't touch her, however. It was almost as though he was shy about it. Martha was apprehensive herself; after all, she had never done anything like this before.

"Will it hurt you?" Martha asked with concern, thinking maybe that was the reason for his hesitating, but he shook his head. "Will it hurt me?" she continued.

"No," he murmured quietly.

Martha took a deep breath and moved her palm forward as though intent on pressing it against his. But then her fingers passed straight through what would have been his flesh and she found herself experiencing the most curious sensation. He was icy cold – but then she already knew he would be – and she was determined not to flinch at the contact. She moved her hand around as though attempting to grasp onto his but her fingers closed around air. She felt a tingling in her fingertips which wasn't altogether unpleasant. It wasn't the same as when you got that "pins and needles" feeling when you became numb; more like holding out your arm out of a car window as you drove along, feeling the breeze sift through your outstretched fingers.

Martha stared at their hands performing a little dance with great fascination. She didn't even to stop to worry over the fact that the librarian or anyone else may pass by again and see her waving her hand apparently at random through the air; she was too engrossed in the moment.

While Martha may have found this exchange fascinating, James for his part found it very frustrating. He wasn't entirely sure why. He wasn't frustrated with Martha; he supposed it was natural for her to be curious about his deceased state. He had been half-expecting her to recoil in disgust when their palms passed through one another. He supposed the reason for his frustration was because he had been deprived of human contact for nearly one hundred years and that being in this state, he couldn't truly touch her.

When at last he could bear it no longer, he waited until Martha had taken her hand away from his before he made himself solid again and entwined his fingers through hers, dismissing propriety for the moment. He grasped Martha's hand, his long tapered fingers encompassing her comparatively smaller ones, savouring the feel of her warm skin, clinging desperately to her living, breathing person like a drowning person grabbing onto a lifeline. For it pained him to know he could never truly be part of the physical world ever again.

Almost as though she sensed his desperation, Martha looked up slightly from their entwined fingers to meet his clear blue eyes, which she was sure must have sparkled with such vivacity when he was alive and gave him a sad smile. A smile which plainly said, "I know...I know it hurts and I wish I could do something to help you."

Neither of them were certain of how long they remained standing there between the bookshelves, hands linked together, amongst several decades of history that James had yet to discover. But looking down into those enchanting sage-green eyes of hers...the officer still could not shake off that nagging feeling in the back of his mind that he knew Martha from somewhere.

"I think we have enough books to be getting on with now," she whispered after a while.

James suddenly dropped his hand almost as though he had been burned, and he cleared his throat awkwardly.

"Yes, quite," he answered quietly, and he followed Martha to the desk so she could check out the books.

* * *

By the time they had returned to the high street, the sunshine that had greeted them that morning had long since disappeared to make way for an overcast sky with uniformly grey clouds, which were getting heavier by the minute. It looked like it was about to chuck it down with rain at any moment. It was almost as though the weather was a reflection of James' now rather melancholy mood. He was quiet on the journey back, lost in thought about this strange new world...about Martha's mysterious familiarity...about his fiancé...

" – I just need to pop in Tesco for a sec. You don't mind, do you?" Martha was saying, jolting him back to the present.

_Tesco? Now what could that be?_ James wondered. It sounded Italian; was it a ladies boutique or something?

However, the shop to which Martha had directed him towards was certainly _not _a boutique. In fact, it was about as far from an elegant ladies store as it could possibly get! "Tesco" turned out to be a grey, concreted, rather ugly-looking building. Its name was emblazoned boldly across the top of the entrance in red and blue, and there were _swarms_ of people milling back and forth.

"What is this place?" he asked.

"It's a supermarket," she explained, "it's where a lot of people go to shop for their groceries."

James arched an eyebrow at this but chose not to make any comment. This building was very gloomy-looking; more like an over-sized funeral parlour than a place where people went to purchase food. When he followed Martha through a pair of doors which slid back automatically as they entered, the sight that met the captain's eyes both surprised and horrified him. The almost unbearably bright fluorescent lights. The smell of cooking meat, cheap cosmetics and hot plastic. And the people..._hundreds _of them, it seemed. And it was all so _noisy. _

Martha hoisted the books in her arms so that they were a bit more secure, and led the way down a polished floor towards some aisles which were full to bursting with brightly-coloured boxes and packets. The trip around the supermarket was thankfully a relatively short one; Martha only wanted some milk, coffee, some cat food and a loaf of bread.

When she opted to use the self checkout machines, James experienced another bout of culture shock. These peculiar contraptions actually _talked _to you!

Martha had managed to successfully beep through two items when -

"_Please wait for assistance!" _a female voice trilled in an annoyingly jaunty manner.

"I don't _need _assistance, you stupid machine," Martha hissed at the screen irritably, "It's only a bottle of milk!"

A Tesco worker approached to validate the item and then all seemed to be running smoothly again, until...

"_Place item in the bagging area - !" _ the machine kept on repeating.

"I _am! _Quit nagging," Martha muttered under her breath as she placed her groceries in a plastic bag as quickly as possible before the machine could hound her again. She glanced over at James, who wore an odd, contorted expression as though he was trying to fight the impulse to laugh. "What?" she whispered irately.

"And I thought that you said modern technology was intended to make life easier?" he said in amusement. He chuckled at her disgruntled expression; he found it quite endearing. "Is having arguments with inanimate objects a habit of yours?" he asked teasingly, and for the first time, Martha noticed a glint of mischief in his eyes.

"Oh yeah," she responded with a smile, "It's when I _lose _the argument_, _that's when it gets worrying..."

At the sound of his laugh, she immediately felt her irritation melt away. Just like that time when she had been so panicked at the discovery that he was a ghost, his voice had this odd, calming effect on her.

"Glad to see it's cheered _you_ up at least," she added, but she broke off when she saw the shop assistant give her a funny look that she was apparently talking to herself. Martha hastily slipped some coins into the machine, took her receipt, grabbed the plastic carrier bag with her shopping and promptly left the shop.

* * *

As predicted, the heavens opened up and it absolutely poured with rain, the water falling down in great sheets. Martha had had to run the rest of her way home and got completely drenched in the process. James felt himself somewhat relieved to be back in the sanctuary of Martha's flat. He was not entirely sure whether he enjoyed his first glimpse of the year 2012 or not. When Martha had put her shopping away, she headed to her bedroom to blow-dry her sopping wet locks.

James, meanwhile, after removing his cap and jacket, settled himself on the large, squashy sofa and opened up one of the books Martha had chosen from the library. It was entitled _1000 Years of History. _It was crudely illustrated but it looked interesting enough, and almost immediately found himself absorbed in an article about "The Roaring Twenties".

A while later, Martha returned to the living room, her hair now looking a bit flyaway and dishevelled but otherwise bone-dry. She smiled at the sight of him, head bent over the book, his attentions totally fixed on his reading.

"Is the book to your liking?" she enquired.

"Yes, thank you, you are most kind, Miss Bur – Martha," he corrected himself.

"No probs!" she answered cheerfully, picking up her laptop and sitting next to him on the sofa with it perched on her knees. "Suppose I better do _some _work today," she muttered as she waited for the computer to warm up.

James glanced up from the book at her words, gazing curiously at the machine he had taken to be a typewriter of some sort.

"What is it that you do for work?" he asked her.

"Oh...um... well, I waitress a couple of days a week. But I also write for an advice column for a local magazine. People send me letters and emails wanting advice about things like their love lives, careers, finance issues...anything, really... " she said, absent-mindedly braiding her hair into a single plait as she spoke, "It's hardly _Cosmopolitan_ but I quite like it."

For it was true. Martha's compulsion of wanting to help others suited her work perfectly. To her, this wasn't just a job, those who wrote to her were not just anonymous names on a piece of paper; they were _people. _Real people with real problems who needed help and guidance, and she was only too glad to offer it where she could.

"But it's not what I _really_ want to do..." She trailed off. When James raised his eyebrows enquiringly, she admitted tentatively, "I'd like to be a writer..."

She let that hang as though she was worried he was going to laugh at her for such a ridiculous notion.

"An admirable profession," he said, smiling approvingly.

"You don't think it's silly?"

This time, James' brows furrowed. "No, of course not. Why on earth should I think that?"

Martha shrugged a little, looking down at her computer screen unseeingly.

"Elliot thinks I'm silly for wanting to write a novel," she mumbled, her face reddening to match her hair. "It would help if I had an actual plotline in mind..."

"How long have you and Mr...?"

"Fielding," Martha supplied her boyfriend's surname.

"How long have you been together now? If you don't mind my asking?" James added, not wishing to sound rude.

"Two years nearly."

James nodded but did not make any further comment, and Martha did not question him on why he wished to know. There was silence between them for a moment, save for the sound of her tapping away at the computer's keyboard. The cat, Blossom, jumped up next to her owner, attempting to climb onto her lap and nuzzle under her chin.

"If being an author is what you wish to do, then by all means, you must pursue it," James told Martha after a moment. She looked up to face him.

"Do you really think so?" she asked, and James was a little taken aback at the note of hopefulness in her voice.

"Of course... My sister, Olivia always used to say that if you wanted something in life, then you should grab any opportunity you could with both hands and not to concern yourself on what others may think."

"I like your sister's way of thinking," Martha said, grinning in a way that was so infectious that James couldn't help but smile too. She seemed reassured – emboldened, even - at this encouragement. She looked over at him again. "Thanks for that, peacock," she said quietly.

"You are most welcome."

She continued to watch him long after he turned away to return to his reading. She couldn't help the smile which tugged at her lips. It was rather strange. The ghost of Captain Nicholls had barely been there a day and yet it felt like the pair of them had been friends for a long time.

"D'you know what?" Martha piped up, "I'm really glad it was me who picked up that pocket watch in the shop."

James favoured her with a soft smile.

"So am I," he answered.

Blossom let out a faint miaow as though in agreement.

* * *

**_AN~ To anyone who actually does live in Taunton or knows it, I apologise for any mistakes when describing it; I personally have not properly visited there, though I've driven through it a few times. But going by photos I've seen online, Taunton hasn't really much changed since Edwardian times._ **

**_Also, the little moment between James and Martha in the library, if you're thinking it was like the scene in the film 'Casper', you'd be right and it was supposed to :) _**

**_And those self-checkout machines at the supermarket ARE annoying!_ **

_**And I don't know about anyone else, but I find Tom's hands deeply fascinating. During that scene in 'The Deep Blue Sea' when he and Rachel Weisz are dancing, I can't take my eyes off his hands and fingers, the way they interlock with hers...they're just...mesmerizing. I don't know what it is. Am I the only one or am I just weird? :P**_

_**And on that note, all reviewers can have their own Freddie 'I-Only-Did-It-For-The-Monet' Page. Please review if you liked it, I just love feedback :) **_


	8. I've Grown Accustomed to Your Face

_**Hello, sweethearts! I feel quite overwhelmed by the amazing comments I've received for this story. I honestly didn't expect to get any reviews at all. You guys are so sweet and wonderful, I thrive off your feedback and it encourages me so much. Thank you, thank you, thank you!**_

_**I've also gone and changed the category to 'romance'. You win, okay? ;P **_

_**Shout outs to: nnnnnnnancy, PhoenixCrystal, SilverTortoise, megumisakura, Lightest'Ink, LadyAntoinette, Mimi DuBois, 'Guest', duchessloki, immysaurus, The Ginger Midget, midnightsborder, Vain x Life Poetess, Jaetive, ApolloNico24601,Tayler Snape13 . **_

_**I love each and every one of you; when a review, favourite or follow alert pops into my inbox, I feel I want to bake you a cake or something to show you my appreciation, ha :) I hope you like this chapter!**_

* * *

**Time Knows No Boundaries ~ Chapter Eight **

_I've grown accustomed to her face  
She almost makes the day begin  
I've grown accustomed to the tune that she whistles night and noon  
Her smiles, her frowns, her ups, her downs  
Are second nature to me now  
Like breathing out and breathing in  
I was serenely independent and content before we met  
Surely I could always be that way again  
And yet...I've grown accustomed to her looks  
Accustomed to her voice, accustomed to her face  
__**'**_**I've Grown Accustomed To Her Face' – Rex Harrison**

**.:*:.**

James let out a slow sigh past his lips and shrugged off his jacket, depositing it on the back of a nearby chair.

"Hello there, Blossom," he murmured wearily to the feline who had just trotted to his side, bending slightly to pet her as she rubbed herself against his leg, purring loudly.

It had been just over a fortnight since his spirit was released from the pocket watch and he was slowly becoming acclimatised to the dizzying wonders of the modern world. It was an extremely bewildering yet fascinating process.

However, not all of the things he had discovered were altogether pleasant. He couldn't quite believe it and was most distressed to learn that the Great War had lasted up to _four years_. And not only that, but there had been other wars over time, as well. Was it not supposed to have been "the war to end all wars", for goodness sake? Martha had mentioned about the Second World War in passing but seeing as at the time, he had just been informed that he was in the year 2012, the knowledge had not really sunk in.

While it was enlightening to discover that Britain had indeed triumphed in the war, phrases like _"more than nine million combatants' lives lost_" and _"large-scale human wave attacks which proved extremely costly to in terms of casualties"_ jumped out at him off the page of the reference book he was reading. He had then shut the book with more force than was necessary, unable to read about such things any longer.

The world had _dramatically _changed since his day, and sometimes it was difficult to get his head around it all. But Martha was only too happy to help him where she could.

_Martha..._

James found himself smiling with something close to fondness at the thought of his new friend. How fortunate he was that the one person he could actually communicate with, felt as welcoming to him as a ray of sunshine after almost a century of being trapped in lonely, impenetrable darkness.

He had come to discover that she was a woman who appeared to be quite comfortable in her own skin. Unlike most ladies he had been acquainted with during his life, she did not seem overly concerned about her own appearance or what others may have thought of her. She didn't seem to have many friends, none that she was particularly close to. But for all that, she never failed to offer a radiant smile which lit up her entire face, and a cheery "Good morning" or "Hello" whenever she saw him.

As she had quite rightly said, she was _terribly_ clumsy. He did not think that there was a day that went past where he hadn't seen her trip over her own feet, or there would be little telltale burn marks on her arms from where she had been baking. Whenever this would happen, she would use the most _appalling_ language which would make a sailor blush. He also found that she loved to sing – even though, in all honesty, her voice was quite terrible. Not that Martha seemed to care. She would often happily sing along to songs on her radio, especially while she was cooking – which she was excellent at, as he could honestly attest to.

Apart from that unrelenting notion that he knew her from somewhere, James found it most intriguing when Martha could go from a happy-go-lucky disposition one moment, but then could be almost painfully shy the next. She would blush profusely or momentarily become at a loss for words at his gestures he considered as simple common courtesy, which he found somewhat amusing at first but also a little puzzling. Did not her young man, Elliot, treat her with such cordiality?

Some of Martha's musical taste, however, was a lot to be desired in his opinion. After some persuasion from her, he had bravely agreed to hear a favourite band of hers known as "Queen". In what way was that racket considered to be music, anyhow? As he sat there listening to a song called _Somebody To Love, _Martha had gone into such misty-eyed raptures over this Freddie Mercury chap and how he was a hero of hers, that James didn't have the heart to tell her his honest opinion of the music.

But each to their own, he supposed...

When he wasn't trying to get to grips with the twenty-first century, James had been doing a bit of detective work. He found himself at a bit of a loose end while Martha had gone to work, and besides, more than anything else, he wanted to know what had become of his dear fiancé after the war.

Using his new phantom skills of being able to disappear from one place, only to materialise in another, it did not take the captain long to locate the same little church where he and his beloved had originally planned to be wed. He was glad that not _everything _that changed.

Passing by, unnoticed by others who were lovingly tending to the graves of their dearly departed, James had strolled around the chilly little churchyard, inspecting one weathered tombstone after another, trying to discern the names through the lichen and moss; keeping a sharp eye out for any sign at all that his sweetheart had been laid to rest there. So far, he had had no luck...but then deep down he did not really expect to. She may not have remained living in Somerset. She may have moved to live elsewhere, perhaps with a new husband and a new family. There was every chance that she had remarried, so her surname naturally would not have stayed the same. James was determined not to give in, though.

* * *

As he was sat at Martha's dining table, the captain could feel his artists fingers begin to twitch, impatient to be doing what they did best. On Martha's desk, he managed to unearth some blank sheets of paper and a number of sharp lead pencils. He was certain she would not mind his using them; Martha had already told him that he should make himself at home. They were not proper charcoal pencils which were the tools he would have ordinarily favoured, but they would more than suffice.

Before he knew it, his well-practised hand was sweeping the pencil over the paper in long fluent lines. He was in his element, and James felt himself sink into that certain blissful calm he was familiar with whilst he was sketching, forgetting about the rest of the world for the moment.

He was not even aware of how long he remained sitting there, so absorbed he was in his work, that he was quite surprised to hear the loud rumbling roar of a motorcycle engine coming from the street outside, heralding Martha's return home from her shift at the cafe. He had only just finished some last-minute shading in, when she came bustling in through the door, shivering like a whippet.

"Oh my days, it's _freezing_ out there," she said through chattering teeth, stomping on the spot in an attempt to warm her numbed feet."Hello, you... I wasn't sure if you'd be here or not," she greeted James warmly, flashing him a smile as always, as she went to put away her coat and motorcycle helmet.

Martha, for her part, felt it odd that all of a sudden, she had to come to rely upon James being there. He had almost become part of the landscape now, so to speak, and when she returned home from work and he _wasn't_ there, she found herself missing his presence a great deal.

He would often fill her thoughts during the course of the day. After all...how many people could say they were co-habiting with the ghost of a handsome soldier?

Although it did not exactly require a lot of concentration to serve people coffee, it didn't take long before Martha's thoughts had drifted to her new ghostly friend, leaving her in slightly embarrassing situations. Her boss had remarked with amusement that she had the starry-eyed look of somebody who was in love. Martha had wanted to laugh as her boss couldn't be further from the truth if she tried. At one point, she had been so preoccupied, that she had managed to pour scalding hot tea all over one very unlucky customer's lap.

The two of them were quite comfortable in one another's company now. Martha had eventually become accustomed to his disappearing displays and did not so much as flinch anymore when he appeared suddenly out of nowhere. Also, whenever they happened to brush against one another, his unnaturally icy-cold body temperature no longer bothered her, either.

Ghostliness aside, there was something wildly refreshing about this courteous, softly-spoken gentleman. He was (literally) a dying breed, and Martha did not think she had ever met anyone quite like him. She could safely say that her faith had been restored that the gentlemanly types did in fact exist and were not simply the stuff of fiction, like in a Jane Austen novel. She could not ever remember anyone else who spoke to her with such kindness and civility, who made her feel like a proper lady, as he.

However, when James thought that she couldn't see, Martha noticed at times, he looked rather despondent and he would become quiet and withdrawn, often deep in thought. She dearly wished to know what it was that was bothering him so, but didn't press him for fear of coming off as a nosy-parker.

So dominated were her thoughts of the ghost, she had very _nearly _forgotten all about Elliot. Truth be told, she hadn't actually missed her absentee partner as much as she should have, and Martha felt absolutely horrible for even thinking that.

She'd spoken to him on the phone a couple of times since his departure to New Zealand. Obviously, she did not even dare to breathe a word about the ghost of Captain Nicholls to him, and the fact that she was the only one who could see him. He would think she had well and truly lost the plot. Furthermore, Elliot did not even believe in the existence of ghosts. He was the sort of man who would call a spade a spade and he was firmly convinced that there was no form of afterlife; that when people died, that was it.

"You missing me then?" he had asked Martha when he had rung her during her lunch break a couple of days prior.

" 'Course I am, you daft monkey," she answered with a shaky laugh, feeling a squirm of terrible guilt in her gut as she spoke.

"Sooo...what've you been up to then since I left?" her boyfriend asked, totally oblivious to Martha's mental self-admonishment.

"Nothing much really. Things have been pretty quiet actually..." she answered as casually as she could.

_More lies..._a voice whispered in the back of her mind.

Ignoring it, she had then quickly asked, wanting to steer the conversation away from herself, "Enough about me, what have _you_ been getting up to, eh? How's the land of hobbits?"

As Martha had listened to Elliot's tales from the other side of the world, she promised herself that she would make it up to him once he had returned home from his travels.

"I trust you had a pleasant day, Martha?" James enquired politely now, looking up from his artwork as Martha was unzipping her boots.

"Yeah, it was okay...you know...same old, same old..."

"Did you manage to get the gift you wanted for your father's birthday?" he asked her.

"I sure did!" she said, placing a brightly-coloured gift bag on the table.

With the pocket watch being no longer an option as a birthday present for her dad, Martha had instead bought him a vintage Peterson pipe which was an exact replica of one of the props which had been used in _The_ _Adventures of Sherlock Holmes_. She felt sure it would go perfectly with the rest of his extensive collection of old treasures.

Once Martha was changed out of her waitress' uniform, and into a snugly-warm mauve jumper and jeans, she padded back into the living room.

"What about you? Where do you go when I'm not here?" she asked James curiously, leaning slightly on the back of his chair, "I mean – tell me to shut up and mind my own business but...do you go floating around to haunt creepy manors or something?" she joked.

James chuckled, catching onto her train of thought. "No, churchyards, actually."

"Oh, so not your stereotypical ghost at all, then?" she grinned at him, but James was spared having to answer for she had suddenly caught sight of the drawings lying on her tabletop. "Holy shiz..." she murmured, picking up one of them with something close to reverence.

James, who was getting used to these strange phrases she exclaimed from time to time, looked up at her awed expression.

"Did you just do these?" she asked him, gazing, wide-eyed, at the pictures. At his nod, she said fervently, "They're _wonderful._"

She had heard him talk about how much pleasure he found in drawing but until now she had not seen for herself just what an accomplished artist he was.

"They are only rough sketches," was the humble reply.

"Don't be so modest, you're _amazingly _talented..."

She looked at the "roughly-sketched" pencil drawing of a very attractive young woman with long hair and a gentle smile playing on her lips, and though her face was unfamiliar to Martha, she had an inkling she knew who she was.

"That is – _was -_ my fiancé," James said quietly as though reading her mind.

Martha looked round at him, her hunch confirmed. This was the first time since the day they met he had ever spoken of his wife-to-be, and was keen to learn more.

"The one who gave you your watch?" she questioned, perching herself on a chair next to him.

"Yes."

"She's really beautiful," Martha smiled, and she truly meant it.

The young lady in the portrait was a true beauty in an understated way. With her soft elfin features, she reminded Martha of those she had seen in the illustrations of Flower Fairy books. With her fair hair spilling around her shoulders and a merry glint in her dark eyes, captured brilliantly even in pencil, Martha could imagine that she and James had made such a handsome couple before he was called away to war.

"And does she have a name, this fiancé of yours?" she probed him gently.

"Meg. Well - Margaret...but she preferred to be known as Meg," James answered her. After a moment, he added, "She was a good and kind person. The world was a better place with her in it."

A smile tugged at his lips; a smile so tender and so full of love, it was enough to make Martha want to cry herself that he wasn't to see his Meg again. James' eyes found hers.

"_You_ remind me of her sometimes," he said abruptly, taking even himself by surprise. He realised he had only just come to this conclusion in that instant.

Martha blinked at him. "Do I?" she asked, also sounding highly surprised.

She looked back at the drawing of Margaret dubiously. In what way could she possibly remind him of this pretty Flower Fairy of a woman?

"Sometimes...when you smile, or when I hear you laugh...It's almost as if..." James trailed off, staring into Martha's freckled face, somehow unable to translate into words what he meant. "I'm not entirely sure, I cannot explain it. Perhaps I am imagining things... Forget that I mentioned it..."

James fell silent. He did not know what had come over him. Why had he said all of that? Martha tore her eyes away from Meg's portrait and looked over at him, to see him once again lost in thought.

"Penny for 'em," she said brightly, and James started.

"Oh, forgive me, I was rather away with the fairies..." he murmured.

_Huh, speaking of fairies, _Martha thought.

"So I noticed," she said, "I didn't like to say anything but those pesky little fairies do tend to steal you away quite a lot."

"I'm so sorry," James apologised, "How terribly rude of me – "

But Martha only waved his apology off with a dismissive hand.

"No, no, it's fine, don't worry! It's just that sometimes I wonder what goes on in that lovely head of yours." When he did not respond, she added, "You know, if you ever want to talk about stuff, anything at all... I'm here," she told him softly, clicking into her advice columnist persona.

James hesitated before he answered. When he was alive, he would have confided any troubles he might have had with his friends, Jamie, Charlie, or perhaps his sisters. He would even find himself talking to Joey whenever the two were alone together. As James had sat with him, sketching, the horse's calm, steady nature had been a great comfort to him, particularly when he was frightened of the prospect of what was to come, but wanted to hide his fear from everyone else. As much as he had absolutely hated being all alone trapped in his pocket watch for so many years, he had become rather accustomed to it. So it was small wonder that he forgot at times that he now had someone here with whom he could trust to talk to. For he _did_ trust Martha, even though he had not known her for very long.

James looked into the young woman's earnest face, who was patiently awaiting his reply. He supposed that there was little sense in being secretive.

"I went to see if I could find any traces of what had become of Margaret," he confessed at last, "It is where I have been going for some days now."

Martha's mouth fell into an O shape in comprehension as she suddenly realised what he had meant when he had mentioned churchyards.

"And? Did you have any luck?" she asked eagerly, but he shook his head. Her shoulders slumped with disappointment on his behalf. "I'm sorry..." she murmured, resting a small hand on his forearm and giving him a sympathetic squeeze.

"I just feel that if I was to find out what happened to her, I could move on...I could..."

"Lay a ghost to rest? If you'll excuse the phrase," she added hastily. "Don't give up, hon," she said bracingly, patting his arm. "You're bound to find out something soon enough." She scraped her red hair back into a messy bun as she spoke. "Righto...well, I need to crack on finishing my dad's birthday cake..." she said, heading for the kitchen.

Humming a tune as she began to beat together the ingredients for some butter icing before piling the mixture into a piping bag, James followed and looked down at the near-finished sponge cake sitting on the counter which she had baked the day before, and couldn't help but smile. It was a bit skew-whiff and far from perfect, but what did that matter? It was obvious that a lot of love and effort had gone into this cake. In a moment of mischief, he dipped a long forefinger into the bowl of icing.

"Hey, I saw that, Soldier Boy!" Martha mock chided him, lightly swatting the offending digit with her spatula. James placed his finger in his mouth, shooting her a look of feigned hurt.

"Saw what, exactly?" he asked innocently, raising his eyebrows. Martha suddenly laughed. "What's so funny?"

"You've got a bit of icing – Come here... "

She reached up a hand to gently swipe away a little speck of blue butter cream from his top lip with the pad of her thumb. She had to stand on tiptoes because of their drastic height difference, but this unexpected and surprisingly intimate gesture caused James' face to flush (or as much as he could in his deceased state) at the feeling of her warm fingers on his cold face. Martha, too, seemed to have realised how forward her action had been and he saw her cheeks burn scarlet as well. She dropped her hand in embarrassment and turned back to her handiwork.

"Can you...um...communicate with other ghosts?" she asked him, changing the subject abruptly to gloss over this awkward moment between them.

James quirked an eyebrow at the change in topics but did not comment upon it. Clearing his throat a little, he confessed,

"I don't know, the thought had never even occurred to me. Why do you ask?"

"Well, I just wondered if there was possibly a way for you to contact your Meg or something. I wondered if it was a bit like _Harry Potter_ and you ghosts got together for Deathday parties or something..." she added jokingly.

_What an odd thing to say_, James mused. He could not see why anyone would wish to hold a party to _celebrate _the day they had died... Instead, he asked,

"Alright...I give up. Who is Harry Potter?"

"_What?!_" she gasped, staring at him with an expression of complete shock, "But – but he's the saviour of the wizarding world!" she babbled, "I can't believe – I mean – How? Why? – Oh, right... of course... Oh my God..."

She looked like she was just about ready to cry and James panicked a little.

_Goodness me...I might just well have said I didn't know who _Shakespeare _was... _

He had not anticipated such an emotional reaction. He did not think, even in the afterlife, he would _ever_ understand women. He blurted out the first thing that came to mind.

"Why don't you explain it to me?"

She looked at him, momentarily stunned. "You sure? It's a long story. Okay, here goes…"

He relaxed as she began to summarise the tale full of magic and adventure, proud to have averted any hysterics due to his time-travelling issue. As she was talking, Martha had dragged a stool over to stand upon to reach for a box on top of her cupboard, intended to carry her father's cake in. However, the stool gave an ungainly wobble... In a moment, James realised what was happening and dove to catch her before she ended up face down on the floor. Martha's body twisted around in surprise so that she was facing him. If he had been alive, James felt sure that his heart would have been pounding painfully in his chest as her hair came up near his face; he could feel her breath tickle his neck, and her breasts were pushing tightly against his chest, causing him to utter an almost inaudible sound of surprise and pleasure. She was warm. _So_ warm...

Embarrassed, James shook himself mentally in order to rid the scandalous images from forming in his mind as he reluctantly lowered the redhead back to the tiled floor, trying very hard not to think about the lovely fruity fragrance coming from her hair.

"Thank you," she squeaked, her breath catching in her throat at this lack of space between them. Very much aware of his muscular chest against hers and the strong arms encircling her waist, Martha couldn't help but blush yet again.

James swallowed. "You're welcome," he answered quietly.

"This is starting to become a bit of a habit, isn't it?" Martha said, letting out a nervous laugh in an attempt to break this tension that was quickly forming, referring to the time when he had helped her from tripping down the steps.

_Ugh, I have to get out of here before I pop a blood vessel in my face! _That was all she could think as she pulled herself out of his grip as fast as possible.

"Right – I, uh...well, I'm off to my folks'..." Martha blurted quickly, grabbing her coat and boots again.

"Are you going to tell your parents about me?" James asked her curiously.

"And how am I going to explain that one?" she said, her tone light once more, "_ "Hey, Mum, Dad, guess what? I've got myself a new flatmate. No biggie or anything but he's nearly a hundred years old, and can turn invisible. Oh, and he's dead." _Don't think it'll go down too well somehow..._" _

"Well, when you put it like that..."

Before she left, Martha pulled down something from her bookshelf and passed it to him. James looked down to see she had given him a slim paperback book. He looked at the cover to see it was entitled _Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone, _along with a caricature of a bespectacled boy with scruffy black hair gazing up in wonder at a scarlet steam engine.

"I'm determined to turn you into a Potterhead yet!" she grinned at him, as she picked up the presents for her father. "Anyway, I shouldn't be too long... See you later!" she called, the door banging shut behind her. It was like she couldn't get away fast enough.

James felt they had both reached a new level of embarrassment right now. While they had spent these first couple of weeks in getting to know one another and just plainly talking he had already lost the count of how many times they either became flushed or embarrassed. He looked at the book his hand, and shook his head in amusement. He just hoped that Martha's taste in books was a lot better than her musical one. Making himself comfortable in an armchair, it wasn't long before the captain found himself lost in the fantastical world of the young lad known as Harry Potter...

* * *

Martha did not handle her embarrassment well, either. Once she was out of her flat and alone in the sanctuary of the lift, she took a few steadying breaths, willing her galloping heart to calm down. She felt a little unnerved, for despite her actions, she couldn't honestly say that she had disliked the feeling of the soldier's arms around her -

_What's the hell's wrong with you? You have Elliot! You shouldn't be behaving this way...he's _dead_, for crying out loud! Ugh, how sick and perverted am I? _

"Stop...acting...like...a...teenager!" she growled to herself. Whatever happened, no matter how friendly they were with one another, she mustn't become _too_ attached to the ghost. It wasn't like he was going to be there with her forever...

Martha's thoughts were so consumed about what had transpired earlier in her kitchen, that the walk to her parents' home did not seem to take her any time at all. In fact, she was very surprised to find herself already standing outside the red-bricked terraced house in which she had grown up in. Mentally berating herself to focus, Martha trudged up the garden path, and let herself into the house.

* * *

"Hellooo? Only me!" Martha called out as she stepped into the narrow hallway.

She could feel herself already begin to relax in the familiar, cluttered but cosy house in which she had been born and bred. It hadn't changed one bit since she moved out three years ago, how typical. So many memories here...more good than bad, she was happy to say. Martha knew that her mother would still be at work, so she left the gifts on the kitchen table before trooping up the stairs in the search for her father. However, upon reaching the landing, instead she was faced with the loft ladder descending from a hatch in the ceiling.

"Dad?" she called up, "You there?"

"Is that my little girl's dulcet tones I hear?" a distant jovial voice replied from somewhere above, and Martha grinned and began to clamber up the ladder.

"Nope, it's the friendly neighbourhood burglar!" she quipped, "Just thought I'd swing by to give the old man his birthday presents!" she said, scrambling over the obstacle course of boxes and plastic sacks to reach her father, who was riffling through a box of vinyl records.

"Hey, Carrot-Top!" he greeted, using her old nickname back from when she was a child, as Martha ducked under a roof beam so she could plant a kiss on his cheek.

"Happy birthday, Daddy!"

"Ah, thanks, sweetie... Here, pull up a box..." he added, hauling over a cardboard box so she could sit down next to him, "And less of the "old man" cracks, thank you," her dad reproached her half-heartedly, waving a finger at her, "Just because I've hit the big five-oh, I'm not _quite_ ready for my Zimmer frame just yet, y'know."

" 'Course not. You don't look a day over twenty-one," Martha teased.

"Ho, ho," answered her father drily.

As a matter of fact, with his jet-black hair streaked with silver, and tall, broad-shouldered frame, Greg Burton didn't really look his age at all. He may have looked serious and the perfect corporate man, but underneath he was irrepressible. He loved silly jokes, chuckled for hours over Gary Larson cartoon books and could recite episodes of _Fawlty Towers _in his sleep. Martha's love for antiques was not the only thing she had inherited from him; they both shared the same green eyes and long nose, and generally easy-going nature.

"What're you up to, anyway?" Martha asked, looking around the musty-smelling attic which was full to bursting with her family's history. Over in the far corner, she spotted an old keyboard standing on its end, and also a large artificial Christmas tree.

"Your mum reckons she's succeeded in persuading me to kick a habit of a lifetime, and have a clear-out," Greg answered.

Martha couldn't help but roll her eyes and emit a little laugh of disbelief. Her dad was _never_ one to throw things away. Just like her, he had the squirrel-like tendency to hoard everything instead of getting rid of it.

"And _are _you? Or did you just say you were to shut her up?" she asked, flashing a knowing grin.

"What do _you_ think?" said her father, responding with a grin of his own, "It's amazing, you forget how much you've collected over the years... You okay, sweetheart?" he added suddenly, looking closely at his daughter's face.

Martha, whose mind had unconsciously wandered back to James, started at the question but she quickly offered an easy smile.

"Yeah, I'm fine!" she answered breezily, "Why wouldn't I be?"

"I dunno, you just seem a bit...preoccupied."

Martha hesitated. Usually, she was able to tell her father anything, anything at all. She was very much her Daddy's Girl, and more often than not, he would be the one she would turn to in times of need. But could she really tell him about the ghostly soldier who was currently reading in her flat?

"Is work okay?" Greg persisted.

"Yes – "

"Are things with you and Elliot alright?"

"_Dad_," Martha soothed him, "Everything's fine, I promise you."

He nodded, appeased for the moment. "Hey, you'll never guess who I found earlier..." he said cheerfully, and when Martha looked around, he had dug into a black plastic bag and held up what she immediately recognised as her old Peter Rabbit plushie. A huge smile of delight spread across her face.

"Aww, Peter!" she cried happily, reaching for him.

The little Beatrix Potter bunny was looking a bit worn and faded now due to years of constant cuddling and trips in the washing machine. He was even holding a little carrot in one of his threadbare paws. It was just a little in-joke in her family, for when Martha was born, she already had this coppery mop of hair, earning her the affectionate name of "Carrot-Top". Martha hugged Peter to her chest, breathing in that oh-so familiar musk of talcum powder.

"If you want to take some stuff home with you to keep, you can, y'know," Greg told her.

Martha already had enough antiquities in her home to be able to open her own shop, but she was suddenly overcome by a surge of nostalgia, so she decided to stay awhile to see what else she would come across.

Whilst she and her father were reminiscing over this and that, Martha heaved aside her old wooden doll's house, shrieking a little as some large spiders scuttled out from their hiding places, and found a number of framed pictures propped up in the corner. She felt a strange prickling feeling stir the little hairs on her arms and on the back of her neck... Curiosity quickly overpowering her fear of the arachnids lurking in the shadows, Martha ventured over to take a closer look.

One picture was a beautiful watercolour of an elegant Victorian lady in an orchard, a basket of fruit in one hand, the other reaching up to pluck an apple from a tree. It was a painting Martha knew well; it had used to belong to her grandmother. While her dad was happily chattering away in the background about something or other, Martha turned her attentions to the other picture. This one, however, she had _never_ seen before...

Craning her neck in order to get a better look at it, she could see that it was a dusty oil painting of a horse standing in what looked like a stable. Martha reached out a hand to straighten up the picture, brushing dust away off the bronze frame. The horse was a handsome creature with a splendid, glossy russet coat; a white cross was emblazoned on his forehead and four identical white socks, gazing wistfully out of the picture at her. His ears were facing forward, alert, as though he had just heard his master's voice calling out to him. Even Martha, though she knew next to nothing about horses, could appreciate the creature's beauty and thought what a very fine animal he must have been in life.

She automatically scanned the bottom of the painting for the signature. In black copperplate writing, so faint that the casual passerby would have missed it, it read...

"_Joey. _

_Painted by Captain James Nicholls, autumn 1914."_

_.:*:. _

* * *

_**Alright, you can probably guess why Martha is familiar to James now. I know in the beginning of the War Horse book, it said that Nicholls' painting of Joey was hung in a village hall but just for the sake of this story, obviously it isn't.**_

_**Martha's dad; I modelled him slightly after Rupert Graves, hence calling him Greg after Lestrade in Sherlock. **_

_**Just out of curiosity, do you lovelies have anyone in mind when you're reading Martha? I've been trying to find someone who could be her 'face-claim' but had no luck so far, so who do you imagine could she look like? **_

_**Anyway, enough of my waffle. I hope you enjoyed the update and as always, a review or two would be welcomed and treasured. All reviewers can have their own William Buxton as he is such a cutie! **_


End file.
